Page 18 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

I stand in the doorway watching her Uber’s taillights disappear. The morning air cuts through my t-shirt, and her unanswered party invitation hangs between us like unfinished business.

Back in my room, I find her hair tie on the nightstand. I pick it up, then deliberately leave it where it is. Don’t clutch. Don’t text.

My phone buzzes with the team group chat.

Carter: Saturday at Rocky’s

Matt:finally a real party

Dylan: I’ll be there

The same party Payton’s been planning for. The one where she’ll finally make her move on Wolf Boy.

Westley appears in my doorway with coffee, speaking quietly. “FYI, I unlocked the door for her last night. I hope that wasn’t a problem.”

Jealousy flares. Did they talk? Did she say something about me? But I catch it, breathe through it. Two-count in, four-count out.

“Did you talk to her?” I ask.

“No, man.”

I nod. “Thanks for letting her in.”

Later, while Dylan’s at class, I open the counseling tab again. The intake form stares back at me, cursor blinking in the “reason for seeking services” box.

I read the confirmation email. We’ll contact you within 48 hours to schedule.

I update my notes app with new rules:

No surprise texts today. If party happens, no scenes. Let her lead contact; respond, don’t chase.

The rink feels like sanctuary when I arrive early for practice. I settle into the film room with my tablet, rewatching penalty kill entries from our last three games. Taking handwritten notes helps me focus—angles, gaps, timing. Concrete things I can control.

Practice flows well until I botch a simple breakout pass, sending the puck directly to the opposing forward in a drill.

“Again,” I call to Coach before he can say anything.

He nods approvingly. “Reset.”

I nail it the second time, crisp pass to Dylan who hits Carter streaking up the middle.

In the locker room, Carter starts his usual chirping about weekend plans. “You bringing anyone Saturday, Wilshire? Your ex?”

I deflect without snapping. “Just focusing on the game for now.”

Dylan catches my eye as we’re packing up. “You good?”

“Good. You bringing your hot personal trainer? You didn’t correct me when I called her a him .”

He smiles. “Sorry about that. Yeah, I don’t know if I want to bring her around the guys yet.”

I shrug. “Bring her over the house first to warm her up.”

He nods. “Maybe.”

At the diner that evening, I keep my phone face-down through the entire meal. The boys talk about line combinations and upcoming road trips while I actually listen instead of scrolling. Mid-meal, I find myself drafting a text to Kara in my head, “Hope your day’s easy.”

Simple. Neutral. No pressure.

I open her thread, type it out, then save it in my notes instead of sending it.

“Wolf Boy’s gonna be there Saturday,” Scott mentions casually while stealing fries from Carter’s plate. “Payton’s been hyping it on her story all week.”

Scott’s not normally out with us, but tonight he is, and he’s ragging on Dylan about his personal trainer all night because I guess he went to the gym where they train, and she is a smoke show.

Carter laughs. “Wolf Boy is Rocky. Did you know that?”

My stomach tightens. Kara said Wolf Boy was mysterious. She was talking about Rocky? My teammate? The guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to hockey. The old me would’ve made some possessive comment, staked a claim.

Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom and stare at my reflection under fluorescent lights. I’m pissed, and it’s fucking stupid.

It’s innocent. She’s not yours. This is why she broke up with you. This is why she won’t get back with you. You need to change. Control the controllables.

Back at the table, I shift the conversation to tomorrow’s practice schedule.

That night, I prepare a low-pressure plan. If she texts, I’ll offer a coffee date. If not, silence is fine too. But I still don’t know if she’s coming to the party.

I send a group text to Westley and Dylan.

Zeke: New house rule. No comments if Kara’s name comes up Saturday.

Both respond with thumbs up.

The next day, the group chat explodes with party logistics.

Rocky:Bring whoever. Tell everyone.

Scott: Dylan, I need to test a theory. Invite her.

I shake my head, knowing Scott can be a shithead.

Carter:I’ll bring the whole campus then

I think Kara will be there, so I make a rational decision. I’ll attend, but I won’t seek her out. If she approaches, I’ll listen, not steer.

Thursday afternoon, I clean my truck inside and out, tossing an old hoodie that’s been living in the back seat. I put a spare water bottle and granola bar in the console.

Kara’s hair tie goes in my top drawer, a small symbol of patience instead of possession.

My phone chimes with the counseling appointment confirmation: Thursday 3:30 p.m. I add it to my calendar and set two reminders.

Then, after staring at her contact for several minutes, I draft one more message. This time, I send it.

Zeke: Party’s at Rocky’s Saturday. No expectations. If you’re there and want space, I’ll give it. If you need anything, I’ll be nearby.

I lock my phone immediately after sending. No second text. No checking if it’s been read.

The phone stays silent for the rest of the evening, and I let it.

Before bed, I tape a handwritten note inside my hockey locker. “Breathe. Listen.”

Small steps toward becoming someone she can trust again.

I’m not tired yet restless energy still humming under my skin. I grab my phone and scroll to my mom’s contact, hitting call before I can overthink it.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hi, Z.”

“Hey, mom.”

“How are you? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just... can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” I hear her settling into her chair, probably with a cup of tea. “What’s on your mind?”

“Why is change so hard?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I meant. “Like, I know what I need to do differently. I can see the patterns that don’t work. But actually doing it consistently feels impossible sometimes.”

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Because change requires you to act against your instincts, especially when you’re stressed or triggered. It’s like learning a new language. You know the rules, but in the moment, you default to what’s familiar.”

“That makes sense.” I run my hand through my hair. “It’s exhausting.”

“It is. But it gets easier the more you practice. The new patterns become more automatic over time.”

I take a breath, then ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “Do you think Kara is worth all this trouble?”

“Oh, honey.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “That’s for you to decide, not me. But I will say this, honey, if you’re only changing for her, it won’t stick. Real change has to be for you first.”

The words land exactly right. Not what I expected, but what I needed to hear.

“Thanks, mom. For not just telling me what you think I want to hear.”

“That’s not my job. My job is to be honest. Life isn’t easy. Change is hard.”

We talk for a few more minutes. I get another update on her garden. I tell her about how I’m improving in hockey. I don’t talk specifics because she doesn’t even know what a slapshot is. This is just a normal mom-and-son conversation that grounds me in ways I didn’t realize I needed.

When we hang up, I feel lighter. More centered.

I brush my teeth, turn off the lights, and slide under covers that still smell faintly like Kara’s shampoo. I wish she was here right now, but I know it’s for the best that she’s not.

If I change for her, it won’t stick, so I need to change for myself?

And if I don’t change, I completely lose her, so in a way, changing is for myself.

I’m lying in bed, thinking about how selfish I am. I even laugh in the darkness because this is ridiculous. I am selfish, just like Kara told me all those times.

Reflecting is a bitch, but hey, I learned something new about myself.

The only person standing in my way is myself.

Thursday afternoon hits different. I’ve been on edge all day, checking the time every few minutes like the appointment might sneak up on me. At 3:15, I’m sitting in my truck outside the campus counseling center, palms sweating against the steering wheel.

The building looks normal enough. Red brick, glass doors, students walking in and out like it’s no big deal. I tell myself this is just like going to any other appointment. Dentist, doctor, whatever.

Except it’s not.

Inside, the waiting area has that institutional calm.

Beige walls, motivational posters, soft music that’s supposed to be soothing but just makes me more aware of how quiet everything is.

I give my name to the receptionist and sink into a chair that’s probably designed to be comforting but feels too soft.

“Zeke Wilshire?”

The voice belongs to a woman in her forties, professional but not intimidating.

The office is smaller than I expected, with a couch, two chairs, and bookshelves lined with psychology texts. She gestures to the seating options.

“Wherever you’re comfortable.”

I choose one of the chairs. The couch feels too much like lying down.

“So,” she says, settling across from me with a notepad. “You mentioned on your intake form that you’re dealing with some issues. Can you tell me more about that?”

The question hangs in the air. Where do I even start?

“I’m on the hockey team,” I begin, like that explains everything. “And I have this... pattern. With my ex-girlfriend. We keep breaking up and getting back together, and it’s always because I get jealous or try to control things I can’t control.”

She nods, making a note. “How long has this pattern been going on?”

“Two years. Maybe longer.” I shift in the chair. “The thing is, I know what I’m doing wrong. I can see it happening. But in the moment, I don’t care. I just react.”

“That’s actually very insightful,” she says. “Recognizing the pattern is the first step. What usually triggers these reactions?”

I think about it. “Well, with my ex, it was when she talks to other guys. When she doesn’t text back right away. When I feel like she’s pulling away or hiding something from me.”

“And what do those situations feel like in your body?”

“Like...” I pause, trying to find the words. “Like I’m going to lose something important. Like my chest gets tight and I can’t think straight. Like I need to do something to fix it.”

She writes something down. “That sounds like anxiety manifesting as a need for control. It’s actually quite common, especially for athletes who are used to having control over their performance.”

The comparison to hockey makes sense. On the ice, I can control my effort, my positioning, my decisions. But with Kara, nothing feels controllable.

It’s quiet for a moment.

I say, “So what do I do about it?”

“Well, we can work on techniques for managing that anxiety when it comes up. Breathing exercises, grounding techniques, ways to pause before reacting.” She leans forward slightly. “But I’m curious why now? What made you decide to seek help if it’s been ongoing for some time?”

I think about that for a second. “Because I love her. And I keep hurting her without meaning to. And if I don’t change, I’m going to lose her for good.”

“That’s a powerful motivator. But change that’s only motivated by external factors like keeping someone else around can be difficult to sustain. It doesn’t mean that you and her will work out. So tell me what would change mean for you, independent of your relationship?”

The question catches me off guard. I’ve been so focused on winning Kara back that I haven’t thought much about what happens if she doesn’t want to be with me. What happens if we don’t work out. Right now I think that we will, but the truth is that we’re just fucking.

Wait, is that even the truth? Because the morning sex was so good, and we told each other I love you way too many times for just hooking up.

“I guess... I’d feel less anxious all the time. Less like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”

“That sounds worth pursuing.”

We spend the rest of the session talking about specific situations and better ways to handle them. She gives me homework. I need to keep a log of when I feel triggered and what I do about it. It feels weird, clinical, but also hopeful somehow.

“This isn’t going to change overnight,” she warns as our time wraps up. “Real behavioral change takes practice and patience with yourself.”

I nod. “I’m willing to do the work.”

And I mean it.

Outside, the late afternoon air feels crisp against my face. I check my phone as I walk to my truck and see a text from my sister, Ava.

Ava:Willy and I broke up. It’s been coming for a while but still sucks. Can we talk later?

I stare at the message, processing. Ava and Willy have been together longer than me and Kara. If they can’t make it work, what does that say about the rest of us?

Zeke:Hope you’re okay. Call me later.

Sitting in my truck, I think about what the doc said about change being for me, not just for Kara. Maybe that’s the difference between the couples that make it and the ones that don’t. Do people change to be better or because they’re afraid of being alone.

I start the engine and head home, carrying that question with me.