Page 91 of Smitten Pucking Orc

She dropped it on the bench beside us and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

She didn’t look back.

I stood with Crim, the hoodie pooled on the bench, and everything I wanted disappearing around the corner.

“You’re such an asshole,” Crim said quietly.

“Yeah. I know.”

11 PM found me on my couch, staring at nothing.

My hip didn’t hurt. That should’ve felt like victory. After two weeks of rehab, the hip was fine.

Everything else hurt.

My phone sat on the coffee table. 9:41 had come and gone with no text from me and no evidence that the last few weeks had been anything more than my imagination.

I didn’t blame her for being mad.

I picked up the phone, scrolling through our text thread. The messages from last night stared back at me, proof that this had been real.

How do I look at you? I’d asked.

Like I matter.

You’re the only thing that matters right now.

I’d meant every word. And then I’d thrown it away in a hallway because I was too scared to believe someone could see me as more than the weapon in the net.

My fingers moved.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please.

I sent it and watched the thread.

No response. No three dots. Nothing.

The instruction sheet sat on the coffee table, both copies side by side. The original, soft from lots of handling. The laminated backup, still crisp.

Her handwriting filled the margins. Notes about form, reminders about breathing, and little corrections that showed she’d been paying attention to details I didn’t think anyone noticed.

Proof she’d believed in me.

Before I proved to her and the world that I wasn’t worth it.

The team meeting started at 10 AM sharp the next morning.

I dragged myself into the conference room, finding a seat in the back. The screen at the front showed the opening frame of Game four footage, frozen on my position in net.

Coach hit play.

I watched myself fail in high definition, every mistake magnified. The first goal, where I was a half-second slow. The second, where I overcommitted and left the top corner exposed. The hesitation before each shot, the way I kept glancing up at the family section instead of tracking the puck.

The footage didn’t lie. I’d been somewhere else entirely, and it showed.

“Kedish.” Coach’s voice cut through my spiral. “You’re overthinking. It’s a game. We win some, we lose some. You need to shove all of that out of your head, go out there, and play the hockey I know you have in you.”

“Yes, Coach.”