Page 114 of Puck Fest
“The same way he’s supposed to get past you giving that interview. By deciding that what you have is bigger than the mistakes you made.” Tate opens the door. “Look, I get it. You’re hurt. He hurt you. But you hurt him too. And if you walk away now without actually trying to fix it, you’re doing exactly what you accused him of doing. Giving up.”
He gets out of the truck.
I sit there for a long time after he leaves.
Tate’s right. I know he’s right.
I accused Noah of giving up. Of choosing the safe option. Of being too scared to fight.
And then I walked away and told him to stay away from me.
I’m doing the exact same thing.
I pull out my phone. Noah’s number is still blocked from his end, but I could text from a different number. I could show up at his house or find a way to reach him.
But what would I even say?
Sorry for yelling at you. Also, you’re still wrong about everything.
That’s not going to fix anything.
I need to actually think about this. About my part in what happened. About whether I’m willing to do the work to fix it.
I drive home and spend the rest of the day pacing my apartment, replaying the confrontation.
Noah’s face when I told him he gave up. The hurt in his eyes. The way his voice cracked when he saidI did love you.
Past tense.
Like it’s already over.
Maybe it is. Maybe we’re too broken to fix.
Or maybe I’m just scared.
By eleven that night, I’m going insane. The walls of my apartment are closing in. I can’t sit here anymore.
I grab my keys and drive without really thinking about where I’m going until I’m pulling into the arena parking lot.
I’m not supposed to be here. Marshall banned me. I’m supposed to stay away during suspension.
But it’s almost midnight. The building’s dark except for security lights. No one’s here.
I just need to see it. The ice. The boards. The place that’s been home for all these years.
I try the side entrance near the player facilities. It’s locked.
I’m about to leave when I remember the loading dock door. Sometimes it doesn’t latch properly if you don’t pull it all the way shut.
I walk around back and try the handle.
It opens.
I slip inside, quiet, listening for security. But the building’s silent except for the hum of the air conditioners.
I make my way through the corridors, past the locker rooms, and out to the rink entrance.
The arena’s dark. Just the ice lit up by emergency lights, reflecting in the empty space.
