Page 66 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
My phone’s on the nightstand where I left it last night. No texts from Harper. No missed calls. No desperate messages trying to explain what happened at the restaurant.
For half a second, I almost wish there was something from her—anything that would give me a reason to be angry instead of just... hollow. Then I remember the look on Liam’s face when he realized she was with me, and I shut that thought down hard.
I shower, dress, and go through my morning routine like I’m following a script, because if I slow down, if I let my mind wander, I’ll think too much about things I can’t change. The coffee tastes bitter today. I leave half of it in the mug and head for the door.
On the way to the rink, I turn my music up loud enough to drown out every replay of Harper’s silence, the way she couldn’t even look at me when Liam asked if she was going to tell the truth. But even The Runarounds at maximum volume can’t quite block out the image of her standing there, caught between us like she couldn’t decide which lie to tell next.
The familiar scent of skate leather and menthol rub hits me when I walk into the locker room. Normally it’s grounding, a reminder that some things stay consistent even when everything else goes to hell. Today it feels heavy, loaded with the weight of everything that changed last night.
Liam’s already at his stall, lacing up his skates with the kind of focused concentration that suggests he’s been here a while. His eyes stay down when I pass, and I debate whether to say anything. Part of me wants to clear the air, maintain the friendship that’s been rock-solid for years. Another part—the part that keeps replaying the heat in his eyes when he looked at Harper—wants to let him sit in whatever he’s feeling.
Loyalty to a friend versus the sting in my chest. I’m not sure which one wins.
“So,” Sirus says, dropping onto the bench beside me with his usual grin, “last night got weird fast. What the hell happened? Figured you needed some time to process so I didn’t push, but I want details, man.”
He’s clearly fishing, probably trying to piece together why Harper and Maddie never came back to the table.
“Drop it,” I say without looking up from my gear bag. The message lands hard enough that Sirus’s grin fades.
“Okay, man. Just... if you need to talk—”
“I don’t.”
He mumbles something about being here if I change my mind and backs off. Liam doesn’t chime in with his usual smartass comment, which somehow feels worse than if we’d just gotten into a fight and cleared the air.
On the ice, I throw myself into every drill like I’m trying to skate the anger out of my system. My legs burn, my lungs ache, but it’s better than thinking about Harper’s hands on Liam’s body, her mouth on his, the way she must have looked at him when she thought no one else would ever know.
I slam the brakes mid-thought, refocusing on the puck and the satisfying thwack of my stick against the boards.
During a water break, I catch Liam watching me from across the rink. Just for a second, our eyes meet before he turns away, and I wonder if he’s waiting for me to make the first move or if he’s already written off our friendship as collateral damage.
Either way, I’m not ready to bridge that gap yet.
Coach calls the end of practice, and the team trickles back to the locker room with the usual post-workout chatter. I peel off my gloves and sit on the bench, replaying the dinner scene again like some kind of masochistic ritual. Harper’s face when Liam said her nickname. The way she didn’t deny anything. How small she looked standing on that sidewalk while my world rearranged itself around her lies.
I tell myself Harper’s the problem, not Liam. That my best friend was just as much a victim of her games as I was.
But the truth is, seeing them together—feeling the electricity between them even in the middle of a public confrontation—has carved a bruise I can’t stop pressing on. And as much as I hate it, I can’t deny that they have explosive chemistry. I felt it the moment I stepped outside the restaurant.
I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that she’sTrouble.
In the shower, steam clouding around me, my mind drifts to Maddie. Her face outside the restaurant, tight with guilt and desperation when she said it was all her fault. I didn’t believe her then, figured she was just trying to protect Harper. But I can’t quite shake the memory of how genuinely stricken she looked.
I still don’t know if that makes Harper innocent or just a more complicated liar. Maddie knew she was sleeping with Liam and wanted to intercept them before it got too serious. She was wrong, but can I blame her? She was trying to protect her cousin from heartbreak from the notorious puck boy Liam Murphy.
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and head out to the players’ lot, where the cold air bites through my jacket and clears some of the fog from my head. I’m halfway to my truck when I spot something tucked under the windshield wiper.
A coffee cup. Still warm. My usual order—large black coffee—with my name scrawled on the side in familiar handwriting.
There’s a yellow Post-it stuck to the lid:Thought you could use this. – H
Harper.
My first instinct is to toss it in the nearest trash can, to reject whatever olive branch she thinks she’s extending. But my hand stays frozen on the cup, feeling the warmth seep through the cardboard.
I tell myself it’s just coffee. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably part of whatever plan she and Maddie cooked up to make me forget that she’s been lying to my face for weeks.
But my chest feels... lighter. Just a fraction.
