Page 5 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

I’ve been holding my phone for so long the screen’s gone black three times. Each time I unlock it, the same empty thread stares back at me. Her name at the top. My messages underneath.

You make it home okay?

You okay?

Both marked delivered. Both ignored.

I refresh the conversation for the hundredth time since last night, like maybe the app glitched and her reply’s just hiding somewhere. Nothing. The silence sits heavier than any fight we’ve ever had, and we’ve had some brutal ones.

She always caves first. Always. Even when she’s pissed, even when she swears she’s done, she’ll send me something. A meme. A song. Some excuse to break the ice so we can pretend the fight never happened.

But this isn’t a fight. This is worse.

This is her pretending I don’t exist.

I lock my phone and toss it on my nightstand, but my hand finds it again thirty seconds later. The cycle repeats. Check. Nothing. Lock. Wait. Check again.

Dylan’s alarm goes off in the next room, followed by the sound of him stumbling around, probably looking for clean clothes. The kid’s a mess in the mornings, but at least he sleeps. I haven’t managed more than an hour at a time since Saturday.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Tongue out, beer dripping down her chest, laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Then Lola’s mouth on hers, and the way Kara’s eyes went wide. Not into it. Surprised. Uncomfortable.

That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

What gets me is what happened after. Outside. The way she kissed me back like no time had passed. Like we never broke up at all. Her hands in my hair, her body pressed against mine, every wall she’s built crumbling the second our lips touched.

That wasn’t pretending. That was real.

So why won’t she text me back?

I grab my phone again, scroll to our thread, and start typing.

Hey.

Delete.

Can’t stop thinking about you.

Delete. Too honest.

We should talk.

Delete. She’ll ignore that for sure.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. What do you say to someone who’s pretending you don’t matter when you both know you do?

I switch to Instagram instead and laugh at the first thing that pops up in my feed. It’s a meme that’s a screenshot of a post. Someone wrote, Really debating on weather or not to take AP next year. The two comments below say, *Whether . And then the second one says, Don’t take it. You not ready.

It makes me snicker, so I screenshot it and send it to Kara without much thought.

Once it’s sent, I realize what I’ve done. Shit. I put my phone down and stare into space. I need to remain casual. Like I’m not desperate for her to respond.

The message delivers immediately. I pick up my phone and stare at the screen, waiting for those three dots to appear. For her to type back lmao or poor kid or literally anything that proves she’s not completely shutting me out.

One-minute passes. Then two.

My phone buzzes and my heart jumps, but it’s just the guys on the team. I don’t bother to respond.

Three minutes. Four.

The message switches from delivered to read.

Still no dots.

“Fuck,” I mutter, letting my head fall back against my pillow. She saw it. She looked at it. And she chose not to respond.

That stings worse than I want to admit.

Dylan’s moving around the kitchen now, slamming cabinet doors and clanking dishes like he’s trying to wake the whole house. I check my phone again. Still nothing.

“You’ve been staring at that thing for hours,” Dylan says when he notices me. He’s standing at the counter with a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth, looking at me like I’m pathetic.

“Waiting for her to reply,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

I shrug, not giving a damn what anyone else thinks. I know what I want, and what I want is Kara Day.

Dylan shakes his head and grabs his gym bag. “You know she’s not gonna text you back, right?”

“We’ll see about that,” I snark.

“I’m serious, man. You guys do this every few weeks. Break up, get back together, break up again. It’s exhausting just watching it.”

He’s not wrong but hearing it out loud makes my jaw clench. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alright.” He pauses at the door, bag slung over his shoulder. “When’s the last time you went more than a week without texting her?”

I don’t answer because we both know the truth. I’ve never made it more than a week. Hell, I’ve never made it more than three days.

“Maybe try actually moving on this time,” Dylan says, not unkindly. “Might be good for both of you.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with my coffee and my phone and the silence that’s eating me alive.

I try to eat breakfast, but everything tastes like cardboard. Try to watch TV, but I can’t focus. Every few minutes my eyes drift to my phone, sitting on the coffee table like a bomb waiting to go off.

Still nothing.

By the time I need to leave for practice, I’ve checked our conversation maybe twenty times. The meme is still sitting there, read but unanswered. Like she couldn’t even be bothered to send back a laughing emoji.

The drive to the rink doesn’t help. Every red light gives me another chance to grab my phone and torture myself.

Every song on the radio reminds me of her somehow.

Even the sports talk show guys are discussing relationship drama, like the universe is conspiring to keep her front and center in my head.

Practice should be my escape. The one place where everything else fades away and it’s just me, the ice, and the game. But today I’m off from the first drill.

“Heads up, Wilshire!” Coach barks when I miss an easy pass from Carter.

I shake it off, try to focus. The next drill goes better, but then I fumble a shot I could make in my sleep. The puck sails wide, clanging off the boards.

“What the hell was that?” Coach’s voice echoes across the rink.

Carter skates up beside me during the water break, grinning like he thinks this is hilarious. “Kara on your mind again?”

I want to tell him to fuck off, but that would just confirm what everyone already knows. Instead, I take a long drink of water and avoid his eyes.

“That bad, huh?” Carter laughs. “What’d you do this time?”

“Nothing,” I say, which is mostly true. I didn’t do anything wrong Saturday night. If anything, she’s the one who—

“Right.” Carter doesn’t buy it. None of them ever do. “Well, whatever it is, figure it out before Thursday’s game. We need you focused.”

He skates away, leaving me alone with my water bottle and my thoughts. Around me, the rest of the team runs through drills, their voices echoing off the arena walls. Normal Tuesday practice stuff. Chirping each other, talking about weekend plans, complaining about professors.

I used to be part of that. Used to joke around with them, give Carter shit about his terrible beard, plan weekend parties. But lately, it feels like I’m watching everything through glass. Present but separate.

All because of her.

The rest of practice drags. I manage to pull it together enough that Coach stops yelling at me, but I’m still not playing like myself. Every save I miss, every pass I fumble, just reminds me that she’s got me more twisted up than I want to admit.

In the locker room after, I shower fast and check my phone while water’s still dripping from my hair. The screen lights up with notifications, but none of them are from her.

Group chat with the boys. Instagram likes. A text from my mom asking how classes are going.

Nothing from Kara.

I scroll to Instagram, telling myself I’m just checking the hockey team’s page, but my fingers find her profile like they always do.

Her story loads immediately. A mirror selfie with Payton and Tori, all three of them smiling with their arms around each other.

Glossy lips and perfect hair, like they’re getting ready for something fun.

The timestamp says it was posted twenty minutes ago.

My stomach twists. She’s out with her friends, smiling like nothing’s going on. Like she’s not ignoring my texts. Like she’s serious about breaking up with me. Like she’s really done this time.

But I know better. I saw the way she looked at me when I kissed her. Felt the way she melted into me, all that anger and pretense dissolving the second our mouths touched. That wasn’t fake. That was the realest thing between us in weeks.

She can post all the happy pictures she wants, but she can’t fake the way her pulse jumped when I touched her face. Can’t pretend she didn’t kiss me back like she’d been waiting for it.

She’s lying to herself, not to me.

The drive home feels endless. Every song sounds like shit, every red light lasts forever, and my phone sits in the passenger seat like a taunt. Silent. Dark. Mocking me.

Back at the house, I try to game for a while. Load up some mindless shooter where I can blow things up and not think about anything. But even that doesn’t work. My character keeps getting picked off because I’m distracted, checking my phone between matches.

Still nothing.

I order food I don’t want, eat half of it, then give up. Try to watch TV, but everything on feels stupid. A rom-com where the guy gets the girl. A cop show where everyone’s problems get solved in an hour. Reality TV where people scream at each other over nothing.

Nothing holds my attention.

By the time Dylan gets back from his evening workout, I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. My phone’s next to me, face up, waiting for her name to light up the screen.

“Still nothing?” Dylan asks from the doorway.

“Nope.”

He leans against the frame, studying me. “You gonna be okay?”

I want to say yes. Want to tell him I’m fine, that I don’t need her, that I can move on just like he suggested this morning. But the words stick in my throat.

“I don’t get it,” I say instead. “We had a moment. A real moment. And now she’s acting like it never happened.”

“Maybe that’s what she needs to do.”

“What?”

Dylan comes into the living room, sits on the edge of the couch. “Look, I know you think you guys are meant to be or whatever, but from the outside? It looks exhausting. All the breaking up and getting back together. The drama. The fights.”

“We don’t always fight,” I say.

“When’s the last time you hung out without it ending in either a fight or makeup sex?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it. Because I can’t remember.

“Maybe she’s trying to break the cycle,” Dylan says. “Maybe ignoring you is her way of trying to move on for real this time.”

The thought sits in my chest like a weight. “She kissed me back on Saturday.”

“Doesn’t mean she wanted to.”

“Trust me, she wanted to.”

Dylan sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. I just think maybe you should consider that she might be serious about being done this time. It’s been two weeks.”

After he leaves, I’m alone with his words and my phone and the silence that feels like it’s swallowing me whole. I pick up my phone, scroll to our conversation, and stare at that stupid meme I sent.

Read. No reply.

Like it never mattered.

Like I never mattered.

Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden.

She can play these games all she wants, but I know what I felt Saturday night.

I know how she looked at me, how she responded when I touched her.

She can ignore my messages and post pictures with her friends and pretend she’s moved on, but she can’t erase what happened between us.

Before I can stop myself, I’m typing.

Don’t act like you didn’t laugh at that.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

The message delivers instantly. I stare at the screen, heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for those three dots to appear. Waiting for her to finally admit that she’s been thinking about me too.

Come on, Kare. Just give me something.