Page 5 of Puck Me, Valentine
I’m so tired.
The anger drains away as quickly as it came, leaving nothing but exhaustion.
I can feel my shoulders sagging, the weight of the flyers suddenly heavy in my hands.
I look away from Devlin. Deliberately.
“Thanks for your help, Will.” My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. “I’ll come back to talk to the assistant coach.”
“Val, listen—” Will starts, his tone encouraging, sympathetic, but I’m already moving.
I walk along the glass barrier toward the exit, keeping my eyes down.
I don’t want to look at the ice, don’t want to see the other players probably watching this whole humiliating spectacle.
I just want to get out of here. Finally, to breathe air that doesn’t smell like him, to think about anything other than how much space he takes up in my head.
My legs feel heavy. Each step requires conscious effort.
Then there’s a sharp scraping sound, and Devlin is suddenly right there on the other side of the barrier, skating parallel to my path.
“Give me that stupid flyer.”
His voice sounds strange—rough, tense.
But I refuse to look at him. I keep walking.
“Do you want the fundraiser to be successful or not?”
Now he sounds angry. And very, very tense.
“Please take the flyer from the assistant coach,” I say, proud of how polite I sound, how even my tone is. “It has all the necessary information.”
“Wylie—”
“Hey!” Will’s voice echoes from the middle of the rink. “Val, you need help?”
The sound that follows is like an explosion—Devlin’s stick or fist slamming against the boards so hard I feel the vibration through the floor. I don’t know which it is, because I stubbornly refuse to look at his direction.
Then the scrape of skates as he drives away toward the rest of the team.
I don’t look back.
* * *
For the rest of the day, I don’t let myself think about it.
I focus on Gerald’s medication schedule. On the new rescue rabbit that came in this morning. Someone found her in a cardboard box behind the gym, pregnant and terrified. On my biology assignment that’s due tomorrow.
Not on dark eyes. Not on the way his voice sounded when he said my name.
I’m halfway home when I cross paths with a student Cupid. She’s a miserable-looking freshman draped in a cheap red-and-white getup, her cardboard wings wilting as she shoves envelopes at people like she’s handing out court summons.
She’s practically throwing Valentine’s Day cards at people, her face set in a scowl.
“Take it!” she snaps at some guy I don’t recognize. “It’s got your name on it, so it’s yours. I don’t make the rules!”
The guy protests that Valentine’s Day isn’t for three weeks, but she’s already stalking away, her quiver of arrows rattling on her back.
