Page 7 of Puck Your Friend

Our second-line left defenseman, North, rattles on, and I nod. I’m half paying attention. Something about rotations. Maybe a dig at Logan. I laugh when the others do, but my focus drifts.

The new media crew stepped in a few minutes ago, and I’ve barely looked their way. No one on the team wants this documentary. It feels like a setup. Like we’re being recorded for humiliation fodder.

Someone clears their throat.“Hi, everyone. My name is Francesca Darian. I’m the producer working with Victory Newsline Media on the upcoming documentary about the Bears.”

That’s when I look up.

Francesca Darian.

The name doesn’t hit me at first. But the voice? The shape of her mouth?They make me take notice.I swear I memorized her lips that summer.

She stands beside the cameraman, arms rigid at her sides. She looks like she’s trying to project confidence, but the tension in her spine gives her away. Her hair’s longer than I remember, styled in glossy curls that bounce slightly when she shifts her weight. Her skin still carries that warm, sun-baked tan.

Her press badge hangs from a lanyard around her neck. It says Francesca Darian, Beta.

My nose tells me the same thing: she has a neutral scent. Nothing wrong with it, but nothing memorable either. Just like every other Beta I’ve ever met.

But my inner Alpha becomes uneasy, and I’m not sure why.

It’s nothing like how she smelled that night.

“Frankie!”My breath gets caught somewhere between memory and instinct. I say her name before I realize I’m even moving.

Logan flinches when I push off the bench. Wes shifts to the side as I pass. My blades don’t slow me down. I’m moving too fast for that.

She turns just in time for me to reach her.

I pull her into my arms without asking. Just sweep her up and lift her clear off the ground. Her body hits mine in a rush of warmth and memory. I close my eyes for half a second, and it’s as if the last decade never happened.

All I can feel isher.

“Frankie.”I repeat it into her neck, like if I keep saying it, it’ll make up for all the years we lost.

She’s not hugging me back.But she’s not pulling away either.

I hold her for a moment longer than I should, then let her down gently, my hands still hovering over her arms.

Frankie looks up at me, her expression unreadable.She said her name was Francesca.But she’s Frankie.

Our Frankie.

11 years ago… (Age: 15)

Gravel crunches under the tires as we turn off the main road. The truck jostles over the uneven dirt, past a wooden sign with the peeling white letters: CAMP IRONWOOD.

Dad keeps one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the stick shift. “If you get hurt, sick, or pull something dumb, I’m not driving back here. You’re staying the full eight. Or finding your own way back home.”

I adjust the seatbelt as it digs into my shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

“You better be. This place isn’t cheap.”

I keep my eyes on the trees slipping past the window. He’s not paying for it. That was the deal. I turned fifteen, and he said if I wanted to come back, I’d need to cover it myself.

My mom wouldn’t sign off on a work permit.So I did the next best thing, Every day leading up to summer, I did any job I could get: weeded, raked, cleaned, walked dogs, shoveled driveways until my hands cracked in the winter. Whatever I could do to earn the most money.

I walked and took the bus to hit more than one neighborhood on the weekends. All of it went toward camp. The last two grand my mother helped me with as long as I pay her back next year. It’s our secret.

It’s worth it to see Frankie and the guys. I hope she’s here again. I seriously need to get her number or address this year so we can keep in touch, maybe even see each other now that we’re older.