Page 45 of Slapshot Kiss

By eleven, it hits me that tomorrow she'll be out with Adam.

Some guy who, according to Cole's very serious scouting report, works with spreadsheets, will take Quinn somewhere with cloth napkins, and doesn't clam up every time he sees a frozen lake through the trees.

I finish my bowl of cereal standing at the sink.

One kiss, and that was panic. One almost-kiss, and a phone call that stopped us both from finding out what came next. That's the whole square inch of ground I've got to stand on.

Doesn't stop the ugly little twist behind my ribs at the thought of some guy in a collared shirt getting the version of her that rolls her eyes and means it as a compliment.

I start typing Hope tomorrow goes exactly how you want it to.

True. Generous. The kind of thing a decent guy sends.

I delete it.

I'm not that fucking generous.

I put my phone back face-down on the counter and stand there in the quiet, my cereal finished and the leftover milk gone lukewarm.

I might not be that generous, but at least I haven't texted her something pathetic like Please don't go on that date or I hate Adam or Go out with me instead.

I count that as a win.

***

The next day, I wake up already knowing what day it is before I check the time, the way you wake up already knowing it's going to rain.

Pickles didn't get the memo. He's doing his usual cheery, breakfast-adjacent chaos on the kitchen floor, nosing his bowl three inches to the left like that's going to make the food appear faster, blissfully unaware that his human is currently spiraling over a woman who isn't, in any official capacity, his to spiral over.

“Don't look at me like that,” I tell him. “Haven't you ever heard how rude it is to judge other people?”

I go to the rink for the optional Saturday skate because standing around in my apartment, thinking about Adam and his spreadsheets and his cloth napkins, sounds like a specific kind of hell I'd rather not sign up for voluntarily. Better to hit something. Ice doesn't hit back, but it's close enough.

I skate harder than the drills actually require. Corners tighter, stops sharper, snapping my stick through every one-timer like the puck owes me money.

Nobody says anything about it, which either means I've fixed whatever was wrong on Thursday or today just isn't the day anyone feels like pushing me.

I don't ask which.

Afterward, I'm in the parking lot, gear bag over one shoulder, phone in my other hand, and I catch myself doing the math again. Her dad said Saturday. Didn't say what time. Didn't say where.

I have every excuse in the world to ask. The hoodie. The dog. A hundred flimsy reasons that would let me find out exactly when and where this is happening without ever admitting why I want to know.

But I don't.

I stand there a beat too long, keys already out, the cold air doing nothing to clear my head the way it usually does after a hard skate. Something's been building all week, and it's completely out of my control.

I make a decision without really knowing what I'm deciding, standing there in a mostly empty parking lot with my breath fogging in front of me.

I'm not spending tonight in my apartment, waiting to hear how it went.

I don't know yet what that means or what I'm actually going to do about it.

I just get in the car.

9

QUINN