Page 14 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Massimo

The puck slams into the boards six inches from my face. Glass rattles. I pivot hard. Blades cut deep.

Ice spray erupts as I accelerate. My thighs burn. Lungs pull in cold air. Metal and sweat on my tongue. This is the only time my mind empties completely.

Open ice ahead. I drive toward it. Stick handles tight. Quick. Controlled.

Defenseman approaches. I cut back sharply. My edge bites ice.

The world narrows. Black disk. White surface. Flash of jerseys.

A cross-ice pass hits my tape. Perfect connection. One touch and I'm in the slot. I wind up. The slap shot leaves my stick with a crack. Arena echoes. Goalie flinches. Glove flashes. Puck disappears mid-air.

"Again!" I'm already circling back. Heart pounds. Not from exertion. From need. Need for speed. Need for power. Need to make everything else disappear.

Battle drills next. Board work. I throw my body into it. Pin opponents against glass. Fight for pucks like oxygen. Shoulders collide. Grunts of effort. Sweat-soaked equipment. This is real. This makes sense.

"Fetuccine! Head in the game!" Coach bellows from the bench.

I've missed a defensive assignment, left my man open.

Unacceptable. I push harder, skating faster than necessary, leaving knife-sharp trails behind me.

My muscles scream in protest as I drive up and down the ice, backchecking with desperate intensity, as if I could somehow outskate the thoughts of her that follow me everywhere.

Harrison catches up to me as I round the net, matching my stride. "You trying to break the sound barrier or just the ice?"

I glance down, noticing for the first time how deeply my skates are cutting into the surface. Aggressive edges, just like my mood.

"Just staying sharp," I manage between breaths, sweat dripping from my helmet.

"Sharp enough to cut someone," he observes. "This about your sheriff?"

I nearly choke on my water. "She's not my sheriff."

"Could've fooled me." Harrison waves a hand in front of my face. "PR meeting in ten. Try not to murder anyone with your death glare."

The PR meeting is mind-numbing—sponsors, appearances, charity events. I nod at all the right moments, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Reese. To her eyes when I walked out.

"And finally," Karen from PR is saying, "we'd like to discuss community outreach opportunities for the off-season. The usual. Hospital visits, youth clinics—"

"What about a festival sponsorship?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Karen blinks. "Festival?"

"Small town here in Ohio. Fairwick. They have a summer festival coming up. Tourism has been down, they're struggling." I lean forward. "We could do an exhibition game. Fundraiser. Get some good press."

"Why Fairwick specifically?" Coach asks, eyebrows raised.

Because I can't stop thinking about the town. About Reese. About making things right. And this may be my way of showing her I care.

"It's where I've been staying," I say instead. "It's a good community. They could use the help."

Karen looks intrigued. "An exhibition game could work. When is this festival?"

"Next weekend."

"That's pushing it."

"I'll handle the logistics," I promise. "Just need the team's support."

Coach studies me. "This matters to you."

It's not a question. He knows me too well. "Yes," I admit. "It does."

He nods once. "Let's make it happen."

After the meeting, I sit alone in the locker room, staring at my phone. No messages from Reese. Not that I expected any. Not after what I said. What we both said.

I'd struck at her deepest fear—that she wasn't being taken seriously, that her judgment was being questioned because she's a woman. And she'd hit back where it hurt most—dismissing me as nothing but surface charm.

We'd both drawn blood.

Harrison drops onto the bench beside me. "You gonna call her or just stare at your phone until it bursts into flames?"

"Not that simple."

"Never is." He stretches his legs. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Too bad." He settles in. "Because you're destroying team property with that puck slapping, and I'm designated Tucci-whisperer this week."

Despite everything, I laugh. "Since when?"

"Since you came back from Fairwick looking like someone stole your puppy."

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I messed up."

"Shocker." He stands. "But you're organizing a whole damn hockey exhibition for her town. That's a pretty good start to apologize."

"It's not for her," I say automatically. "It's for the town. For the festival."

"Right." He doesn't even try to hide his disbelief. "And I'm just going to Fairwick next weekend for the fresh country air."

"You don't have to come."

"And miss the chance to meet the woman who's got you shooting pucks like you're trying to punch holes in the universe? Not a chance."

After he leaves, I close my eyes, remembering the way she looked at dinner with the grandmas. The way she laughed. The way she kept her hand on mine under the table when Ruthie told stories about her late husband.

The way she saw me—really saw me—until I ruined it.

My phone buzzes with a text from Karen: Festival sponsorship approved.

I look at the message, a strange mix of hope and dread settling in my chest. This isn't just about the festival. It's about making things right.

About showing Reese that I meant it when I said I cared about her.

Even if it's too late for us.

My phone buzzes again. What does Karen want now?

Reese : Come back. We need you here now.