Page 118 of Puck Fest
I read it three times.
Danny wants to talk.
He told me we were done and to stay away from him. He walked away from me without looking back.
Now he wants to meet.
I should say no. I should tell him it’s too late, we said too much, we’re too broken to fix.
But all I can think about is the look on his face when I told him the relationship had ended. The hurt in his voice when he saidyou chose everyone except me.
He was right. I did.
I stare at the text for ten minutes before responding.
I’ll be there.
The reply comes immediately.
Thank you.
That’s it. Just two words.
But they feel like more.
The rest of Saturday drags. I try to work on Sam’s contract, review the project scope, focus on something productive.
But all I can think about is tomorrow. What Danny wants to say. What I need to say. Whether we can actually fix this or if we’re just prolonging the inevitable.
By evening, I’m second-guessing everything.
My phone rings. It’s my father.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How are you doing?”
“Fine. Why?”
“Because you sound like you’re about to crawl out of your skin.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I talked to Masterson last night.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“He showed up at the arena late. He said he needed to see the ice. We talked.”
“About what?”
“About you. About what happened. About the fact that you’re both miserable and too stubborn to fix it.” He pauses. “I told him I never gave you an ultimatum. That ending the relationship was your choice. Not mine.”
“Dad—”
“I also told him I regret not being clearer with you. That I should have told you your happiness matters more than my career. That I love you no matter what.” His voice softens. “I was so focused on the consequences that I forgot to tell you what really mattered.”
I drum my fingers on the tabletop.
“I figured Masterson reached out to you,” Dad says. “He asked me if he should. I told him yes.”
“You told him that?”
