Page 87 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
Sirus waves me off.
Game night at my place has become a tradition over the past year. Every other Wednesday, the core group shows up: Sirus, Marcus, Tommy, and usually a rotating cast of whoever else is free. We play cards, argue about sports, eat too much pizza, and generally act like the college guys we are. Liam never shows up. It’s not his style to play board games.
Bringing Harper into the weekly game night feels natural. She was right when she said we are good friends. I’ve always heard that’s the best recipe for a long-term relationship.
She arrives with Maddie around seven, carrying a bag of chips and wearing one of my hoodies that's way too big on her. The sight does something to my chest.
"I come bearing snacks," Harper announces, holding up the bag like a trophy.
"She tried to bring homemade cookies," Maddie adds, hanging up her coat. "I had to physically stop her from turning on the oven."
"They would have been fine," Harper protests.
"You literally forgot cookies were in the oven two weeks ago until the smoke alarm went off."
"That was one time!"
I pull Harper close and kiss her temple. "For the record, I appreciate the thought."
"You're supposed to be on my side," she says, but she's smiling.
"I am on your side."
Maddie glares at us. “Get a room.”
The night unfolds easily. Harper gives Marcus shit about his terrible poker face, teams up with Maddie to absolutely destroy us at charades, and somehow gets Tommy to open up about his girlfriend troubles in a way the rest of us never could.
Watching her laugh at one of Sirus's stupid jokes, completely at ease in my living room surrounded by my friends, I feel something settle in my chest. This is what I want. Not just Harper in my bed or on my arm at parties, but Harper integrated into my life. Part of my world.
The following Tuesday, I have a home game—our first conference matchup of the season. Harper mentioned wanting to come, but I didn't realize what that would feel like until I skate out for warm-ups and see her in the stands.
She's sitting with Maddie and a few other girlfriends, wearing my spare jersey with my number on the back. The sight hits me harder than I expect. This is different from her showing up the last time. This is her claiming her place, visible and proud, telling everyone in this arena that she's mine and I'm hers.
I catch her eye during warm-ups, and she waves, grinning wide. I tap my stick against the ice in acknowledgment, feeling like an idiot for how much that simple gesture means to me.
"Someone's got a fan club," Liam says, skating past.
I follow his gaze and realize he's looking at Harper too. There's something in his expression I can't quite read. We haven't talked much since everything went down, maintaining a professional distance that works for the ice but feels hollow everywhere else.
"Yeah," I say carefully.
"She looks happy." He says it flat, like he's forcing the words out.
"She is."
Liam nods once, then skates away toward the other end of the ice. The interaction is brief but loaded with everything we're notsaying. He's keeping his promise to stay away, but I can see the cost of it in the tight set of his shoulders.
The game is brutal—they're a physical team that plays dirty, and by the second period I've taken more hits than I care to count. But every time I glance toward the stands and see Harper on her feet cheering, it's like finding an extra gear I didn't know I had.
We win 3-2, and I score the game-winner with four minutes left. The arena erupts, my teammates pile on me, and through it all I'm searching the crowd for Harper's face.
After the game, she's waiting outside the locker room with Maddie. The other guys file past with knowing grins, but I don't care. I pull Harper into a hug that lifts her off her feet.
"You were amazing," she says against my neck.
"You're my good luck charm."
"Is that so?"
