Page 69 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
Maddie stares at me for a long moment, then curses under her breath with impressive creativity. “Then it’s time for Plan B.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. Liam’s words keep playing on repeat in my head,but if you want me, I’m willing to give it a try.There was something in the way he said it like… I don’t know… like we would be good together.
Tears threaten my eyes.
This is so fucking hard. And this is self-inflicted. Then rage starts to burn my stomach. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
“I can’t do this.”
“Harper!” Maddie calls after me.
I whip around and say, “If you didn’t intervene, I wouldn’t be in this shitty position right now!”
She stands, brow furrowing. “Actually, Miss Little Stay-in-Bed-All-Day-And-Read-Books, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have met Liam or Cole! And just because Liam is slithering his way back to you, don’t take it out on me! Now sit down because you’re trying to win back the right guy before it’s too late. You blew Plan A. Now it’s Plan B.”
I stare at her, fuming.
She seethes. “Sit! Down!”
32
Small Gestures
Cole
Iarriveattherink Monday morning in what I’m calling a stubbornly neutral mood. Not angry, not sad, just flat. Like someone’s turned down the volume on everything until the world feels muffled and distant. I’ve decided the best way to deal with the Harper situation is to keep my head down, focus on hockey, and let time do whatever it’s supposed to do to make this feel less like a constant ache in my chest.
The guys can feel the shift in atmosphere. Even Sirus, who usually greets me with some joke or a story about whatever romantic thing he did with Maddie, just nods and goes back to taping his stick. The locker room feels heavier today, like everyone’s walking on eggshells around me and Liam.
Speaking of Liam—he’s at his stall when I arrive, going through his pre-practice routine. He doesn’t look my way, and I don’t look his. We’re like two magnets with the same polarity, naturally repelling each other without any conscious effort.
I tell myself that’s fine. Space is better. Whatever friendship we had before Harper came between us needs time to reset, assuming it can reset at all.
The silence between us feels like an unspoken agreement neither of us is ready to break.
On the ice, I bury myself in drills with the kind of single-minded focus that usually comes right before playoffs. Passes, shots, sprints, defensive positioning—anything to fill the space in my head where Harper’s voice usually sneaks in when I’m not paying attention.
Coach runs us through a particularly brutal conditioning set that leaves half the team gasping for air, but I push harder, skating until my vision goes slightly fuzzy around the edges. Physical exhaustion is easier to deal with than the alternative.
After practice, I head out to the parking lot with my gear bag slung over my shoulder, looking forward to the drive home and maybe an hour or two of mindless Netflix. But when I reach my truck, there’s something… again.
This time it’s a small paper bag on the hood, brown and simple, like it came from the café near the arena. I look around the parking lot, half-expecting to see Harper lurking behind somecar, but the lot is nearly empty except for a few other players heading to their vehicles.
I pick up the bag and peer inside. It’s a breakfast croissant with extra chocolate. This isn’t funny. I blink a few times at it. This isn’t funny one bit. There’s no note this time, but I know exactly who it’s from.
I sigh under my breath, though I’m not entirely sure if I’m annoyed or relieved she’s being persistent.
My phone pings before I can start the engine.
Harper:Under the croissant is a bacon egg sandwich.
I stare at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wants to ignore it completely, to let her wonder if her little peace offering even registered. Another part wants to tell her exactly what I think about her attempt to buy forgiveness with chocolate croissants and breakfast sandwiches.
Instead, I send back a single thumbs-up emoji. Not encouragement, not forgiveness, just acknowledgment. I don’t want to give her more than that.
Halfway home, hunger wins out and I dig for the sandwich in the bag at a red light. One bite in and I have to mutter a curse under my breath—it’s perfect. Still warm, exactly the right ratio of ingredients, the kind of comfort food that hits all the right spots when you’ve just spent two hours getting your ass kicked at practice.
Which pisses me off, because now Harper’s going to think her plan is working.
