Page 14 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

In the dark, with Kara’s weight warm against my chest, I trace lazy circles on her shoulder and try not to think too far ahead. The lamp throws soft light across the room, and everything feels suspended, like we’re existing in our own pocket of time.

“Water?” I offer quietly. “A snack?”

She shakes her head against my chest, but I can feel the shift in her breathing. The way she’s starting to surface back to reality.

“I should go soon,” she whispers.

My chest tightens, but I nod. “I’ll drive you.”

No bargaining. No asking her to stay. The words this doesn’t change anything echo in my head like a reminder.

I slip on sweats and a hoodie, then offer her the one she wore earlier. “You can keep it if you want. Or not. Whatever.”

She takes it without comment, and we move through getting dressed in careful quiet. Like we’re both protecting something fragile.

The drive to her dorm is short, windows cracked to let in the cold night air. I keep the radio low and the conversation lighter.

“Warm enough?”

“Yeah.”

“Text me when you’re inside?” I start to say, then catch myself. One-line rule. No check-ins unless necessary.

I walk her to the entrance, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. When she swipes her card, I step back to give her space.

She pauses in the doorway, and for a moment I think she might say something. Kiss me goodnight. Ask me to walk her up.

Instead, she just looks at me with those eyes that give nothing away.

“Night, Z.”

She hasn’t used that familiar nickname in a long time, and fuck, it feels like a win to hear that from her mouth.

“Goodnight, Kare,” I say.

She nods and disappears inside. I wait until the door closes behind her, then drive home without checking my phone.

Back in my room by 1:30, I open the windows to air things out, I throw the towels I used to clean up in the washer and replace my flask with fresh water. The routine feels important somehow. Like I’m honoring what happened without trying to preserve it like a shrine.

A line burns on my tongue—something about how perfect tonight was, how much I missed her, how I hope she felt it too. Instead, I write it on a sticky note and stick it to my lamp: Listen first.

Morning comes early with practice, and I’m grateful for the structure. The familiar rhythm of skates on ice, the sharp bite of cold air in my lungs. I track the puck through traffic, call out clean communications.

“Mine.”

“Wheel.”

“Reverse.”

Fewer barks, more cues. The difference feels significant.

Coach gives me a chin lift during video review. His approval lands different than it used to. Like I earned it instead of demanding it.

“You finally slept?” Carter chirps as we’re changing out of gear.

I just grin and towel off my hair.

In the video session, I ask a neutral, team-first question instead of showing off. “Can we pinch weak-side if center’s under?”

Coach nods thoughtfully. “Good catch. Let’s work that in tomorrow.”

When the guys start jabbing Matt about his blown backcheck, I don’t pile on. Just listen, learn, let the moment pass without needing to be part of every conversation.

Dylan’s making eggs when I get home.

He says, “Hey, man, I wanted to talk to you about the extra room.”

“Yeah? Found someone?”

He nods. “Westley needs a place.”

“Nice, dude. Rent will be split three ways now?”

He nods, and I high-five him. “Fuck yeah. Sick.”

“He’s in there now.”

I laugh. “Okay.”

“Did I miss something?” he asks, studying my face. “You’re doing good.”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” He puts the eggs on a plate.

Stats lecture passes without incident. I take actual notes, email the professor a clarifying question instead of just skipping. Lunch solo at the dining hall, avoiding the Instagram rabbit hole that would inevitably lead me to searching Kara’s stories.

Small wins add up.

Crossing the quad after my afternoon class, I spot familiar figures on the lawn. Kara with Payton and Emma, laughing at something on one of their phones. My pulse kicks up, hands automatically moving toward my pockets.

I keep walking. Don’t wave, don’t approach, don’t create an excuse to be in their orbit. Just pass by like any other student heading to his next destination.

The restraint burns, but it feels right.

Back in my room, I pull out my phone and start typing.

Last night was fun.

Delete. Fuck, that’s too much.

Coffee later?

Delete. Jesus Christ. We’re not dating, that’s in the past.

Have a good shift at work.

Delete. What the hell am I doing?

I leave the text field blank and put my phone away. The rule is one line only if necessary. This isn’t necessary. This is just me wanting to feel connected to her, which isn’t her responsibility to manage.

Self-control is harder than I thought it would be.

I channel the restless energy into a short lift session at the campus gym. Some pulls and core work, then some edge work on the practice rink. Between sets, I write a single sentence in my phone notes: Control is healthy. No control is reckless. Control is protecting, not possessing.

Later, hanging out in the team lounge, Westley mentions something about line combinations.

“Lines are clicking or Coach is lying.”

“Both can be true,” Carter adds.

I float a calm adjustment, “Stagger F3 higher; we’re trading rushes.”

No one flinches. Just nods, considers it. Leadership without control.

Evening settles quiet around the house. I tidy my room without staging it. No candles, no playlist, just the lamp on warm and water at the nightstand. I put my phone face-down and tell myself that if she doesn’t text, the day is still a win.

From 8:30 to 9:20, I watch game film on my laptop, pausing to jot down neutral cues for tomorrow’s practice. My heart rate spikes every time my phone buzzes, but it’s just group chat messages.

I don’t text her.

At 9:27, my phone lights up with a notification.

Kara: This weekend?

I exhale slowly, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. A dozen responses crowd my brain, but I remember the rule. One line. Simple logistics.

Zeke: Side door will be unlocked.

I hit send and set the phone aside. My pulse hammers against my ribs.

This weekend can’t come fast enough .