Page 9 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

The laundry room hums with the familiar rhythm of washers and dryers, a soundtrack I’ve grown to love over the past month. There’s something meditative about sorting clothes, measuring detergent, watching soap bubbles swirl through the glass door. Simple tasks with clear beginnings and endings.

I swap out my regular sheets for the lavender-scented ones Mom sent in a care package, breathing in the clean smell.

My phone sits on the folding table beside me, and I can see the ghost of three unsent drafts in my messages from weeks ago.

They’re all to Zeke, all deleted before I could do something stupid.

How are you? Delete.

I saw your game highlights. Delete.

Do you ever think about— Delete delete delete.

The dryer buzzes. I fold my clothes, each crease a small victory. Thirty-four days of no contact. Thirty-four days of choosing myself.

The professor’s voice carries across the lecture hall as he discusses Pavlov’s experiments. I find myself actually engaged, hand shooting up when he asks about something I know.

I say the answer with confidence.

He nods approvingly. “Exactly right, Miss Day.”

A warm flush of pride spreads through my chest. When’s the last time I felt smart in class instead of just distracted? When’s the last time I raised my hand for any reason other than to leave early?

Barnes & Noble feels like a celebration now with its warm lighting and the soft rustle of pages being turned. I’m taping up a “Holiday Reads” display when a mom approaches with her son, maybe eight years old.

“Do you have anything about hockey?” she asks. “He’s just starting to play.”

The word hockey used to make my stomach clench. Now I just nod with a smile and lead them to the sports section, pulling out a beginner’s guide with cartoon illustrations of skating techniques.

“This one’s perfect,” I tell the kid, who grins and hugs the book to his chest.

His excitement is infectious. Pure. Nothing like the complicated tangle hockey became in my life.

My phone buzzes with group chat notifications.

Tori:study hall at 7?

Payton:Guys. Just saw wolf boy!

Emma: plot twist

Kara: labs are nice

Emma sends back a laughing emoji. The conversation feels light, normal. Like we’re just college girls figuring out our lives instead of me being the friend everyone worries about.

The first snow comes on a Tuesday, fat flakes that turn the campus into something from a Christmas card. We’re walking to dinner when Payton slips on the wet bricks, windmilling her arms dramatically.

I catch her elbow, both of us dissolving into laughter. “Graceful as always.”

“Shut up. These boots have zero traction.”

Emma and Tori catch up to us, and we walk linked arm-in-arm. I feel present in my body, grounded in this moment instead of floating somewhere else entirely.

We pass the hockey rink on our way to the dining hall. The cold bite of air that escapes when someone opens the door carries the familiar scent of ice and equipment and something indefinably him . My steps falter for just a second.

Then I keep walking.

Back in my dorm room, Payton’s playlist shuffles while we study. Three songs in, the opening notes of “our song” fill the air. The one Zeke and I used to play on repeat during our good days. The one that soundtracked late-night drives and lazy Sunday mornings.

I reach over and skip it without missing a beat. No spiral. No tears. Just a song I don’t want to hear right now.

Progress.

Study group meets in the library’s quiet section, and somehow I’ve become the person others come to for help with psychology concepts. A freshman named Marcus struggles with the difference between negative reinforcement and punishment.

“Think of it this way,” I explain, drawing a simple chart. “Negative reinforcement removes something bad to increase behavior. Like taking away chores when grades improve. Punishment adds something bad to decrease behavior.”

“Ohhh,” he says, the lightbulb moment clear on his face. “That makes so much sense.”

Helping him understand steadies something in me. Reminds me that I’m good at this, that my brain works in ways that matter.

Later, alone in my room, my phone pings with a DM from Lola.

Lola: You good?

Kara: Better.

She leaves it at that. No follow-up questions, no pushing for details. Lola, who saw how deep the Zeke thing went, who understood the particular brand of drowning I was doing. Her restraint feels like respect.

Payton bursts through the door with an armful of colorful flyers. “Winter mixer planning committee needs volunteers. Want to help me meet someone boring and stable?”

I laugh, surprising myself by meaning it. “Boring sounds amazing right now.”

“Right? Like, give me a guy who texts back at reasonable intervals and doesn’t have trust issues.”

“The bar is literally on the floor,” I agree, and we both crack up.

That night, muscle memory almost makes me scroll to Instagram. I catch myself hovering over Zeke’s team page. The little preview showing a photo of him in his gear, hair messy under his helmet. My thumb hovers over his profile picture.

Then I back-button out and open my essay instead. Write two clean paragraphs about speech styles that actually make sense. Another small victory.

I pull out a sticky note and mark Day 41 in tiny handwriting, tucking it inside my textbook like a secret scorecard. Some battles are fought in public. Others happen in the space between wanting something and choosing something better.

Thanksgiving break passes in a blur of normalcy. FaceTime calls with Mom where I actually look and feel happy. A Black Friday shift at Barnes & Noble that’s hectic but fun. Hot cocoa with the girls while we complain about our families and plan Christmas shopping.

I do not text him. Not even when loneliness hits hardest at 2 AM, not even when I see a meme I know would make him laugh. The urge comes and goes like weather, intense but temporary.

Day 62 arrives without fanfare.

I’m walking across campus when a glossy flyer on the kiosk catches my eye, flapping in the December wind.WINTER CLASSIC CHARITY GAME – JANUARY 14th.The hockey team’s photo dominates the design, and I can see Zeke in the back row, that familiar half-smile I used to trace with my fingertips.

My heart does a little skip, then settles. I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the flyer before I can think too hard about why.

Then I pocket my phone and keep walking.

Some progress isn’t linear. Some victories come with footnotes. But I’m walking forward, and that has to count for something.