Page 76 of Puck Fest
The flight back from Detroit on Sunday feels different.
Maybe it’s because we won both games. Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted from sneaking around a hotel full of teammates. Maybe it’s because I spent three days pretending Noah means nothing to me when he’s all I think about.
Or maybe it’s because Saturday’s youth clinic is my last one. After that, my probation’s officially over.
I sit with Carter and Jack on the plane, half-listening to them argue about whether Detroit has better pizza than Chicago. When we land in Oakland, my phone buzzes with a text from Noah.
Final clinic Saturday. 10 AM. Same location.
Last one.
Yes. After that, you’re done.
We’re done, you mean. No more supervision.
We’ll talk about it later.
I put my phone away and stare out the window.
Probation ending should feel like freedom. No more mandated community service, no more official oversight, no more league scrutiny.
But it also means no more built-in reason for Noah and me to spend time together. No more cover story for why we’re always around each other.
Which makes hiding this even harder.
“You good?” Carter asks.
I look over and grab my bag from the overhead compartment. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve been quiet.” He grins. “It’s weird. Usually you’re cracking jokes, giving people shit. Now you’re just...” He gestures vaguely. “Somewhere else.”
“The final youth clinic’s on Saturday. I’m just thinking about that.”
“Oh, right. The end of probation.” Carter hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Must feel good to almost be done with all the PR bullshit.”
If he only knew.
“Yeah. Can’t wait.”
On Saturday morning, I show up at the practice facility ten minutes early. Last clinic. Last official obligation. The end of a probation period that somehow turned into the most complicated thing in my life.
Noah’s already there, running around with his clipboard and tablet. He’s in jeans again instead of a suit, and I have to force myself not to stare.
“Morning,” he says when I walk over.
“Morning.” I drop my bag. “Last one, huh?”
“Last one.” Something flickers in his expression. “You ready?”
“To teach kids defensive positioning one more time? Hell yeah, I’m ready.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
We look at each other for a second too long, and I see everything I’m feeling reflected in his eyes. Relief that probation’s ending. Fear about what comes next. The weight of hiding something that’s getting harder and harder to hide.
“We should probably start,” he says, breaking eye contact first. “The kids are starting to head inside.”
