The doorto our house opened and shut, the familiar thuds of Preston’s feet echoing down the hall. I knew the sounds he made, how he dragged his feet when he was tired. He’d set the keys down in the little jar.Clink.Then he’d hang up his coat in the closet and grab a snack.
Right as planned, the closet opened and shut, then his footsteps moved into the kitchen. He’d probably eat a banana or apple before going toward his room. He’d either nap or play videogames. Sometimes, he’d invite me.
It was eight at night, a bit later for him to get home. Did he go to the gym? Hang out with the guys? He wasn’t someone who slept around a ton, but the thought of him going to another girl after last night caused a weird pang in my chest. He probably went to the store or something.
Yeah.
Shit.I sat up in bed, my oversized sweatshirt and boy-shorts panties the only thing I wore. I’d tried watching a show, but nothing kept me interested. Usually when I got this unsettled,I’d go to Preston. He’d talk with me or hang out, appease my urges.
The footsteps went up to our floor, the thuds getting closer and closer to my room. His room was across the hall, so it wasn’t like he was coming to mine.Knock, knock.
Okay never mind. He was outside my bedroom door.
“Uh, just a minute,” I whispered. SON OF A BITCH. My heart raced, and I smoothed my hair back, taking a few deep breaths before plastering on a smile. My stomach was a hot mess, like ten snakes were in there battling for the throne. My hand paused on the handle, not quite able to twist it. By some extra strength, I opened the door and found Preston standing there, one arm leaning against the frame.
His brows were drawn together, his hazel orbs swirling with worry. One of his unruly curls fell on his forehead, and without thinking, I reached out and pushed it back. Being around him calmed me down. His shoulders were tense, but his posture didn’t give off theget out of my lifeenergy I’d created in my head. “Hi,” I said, smiling up at him. “How was the bus ride?”
He scrubbed his jaw, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ve had better. I had a lot on my mind.”
Oh no, he means me.I stepped back, the panic clawing up my throat when he sighed and stepped into my room. Okay, this was a good sign?
“Between my parents’ shit-show divorce, losing the championship, my brother texting me constantly, and my hangover, I’m a mess.” He chuckled and plopped down on the end of my bed.
“Throw in a hookup with your best friend. That’s a real head fuck,” I said, carefully drawing out each word to gauge his reaction. I wanted to curl up next to him and watch some action movie to put him in a better mood. He did seem down and sad, and while he didn’t mention me, he had to be thinking about what happened between us.
His gaze met mine, his jaw tensing, before he blinked away any tension. Then, he smiled softly. “Jordan, last night was fucking fun. We both needed that release. In case it’s not clear, I have zero regrets about it.”
“You don’t?” I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t regret me? He didn’t wish we never did that because now he had to break up with me as a friend?
He shook his head. “Do…you?”
“No. Nope,” I blurted out. It wasn’t lying because I didn’t regret learning the sounds he made and how sexy he was in bed, but the emotion rooted in my gut had me questioning my answer. Did I regret it? Did the hookup change us? “It was fun. Super fun.”
He narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t push back. I spoke way too fast and short, two things I rarely did, and Preston-from-before would’ve gotten the truth out of me. This post-hookup Preston accepted my bullshit answer. I hated how that made me feel. He’d already changed.
“You up for some video games? I need to do something to get out of my head, and I want nothing to do with hockey tonight.” He stood and jutted his chin down the hallway. “You in?”
Yes. Thank God.
I raced down the hallway, determined to prove that nothing had changed. But what if we already had?
12
PRESTON
Afew days after the tournament, I stepped back onto the ice, still feeling the exhaustion from back-to-back games but knowing recovery was key. Practices were lighter, with a focus on conditioning and getting our legs back under us. I actually enjoyed the mix of on-ice drills and off-ice recovery sessions, like yoga and stretching—they helped ease the fatigue. During team meetings, we dissected game footage, pointing out defensive lapses and missed power play opportunities. It wasn’t about dwelling on the loss; it was about learning from it. The coaches made it clear that the Great Lakes experience was fuel for the rest of the season, and I could sense the team’s focus shifting toward what lay ahead.
By midweek, the intensity had definitely picked up. We dove into drills to sharpen puck handling, passing, and breakout plays, all aimed at boosting our speed and execution. Special teams got a lot of attention as we fine-tuned power play and penalty kill strategies. The controlled scrimmages were my favorite—they felt game-like, forcing me to make quick decisions under pressure. Even the goalies were locked in, working with us on positioning and rebound control. It was clear weweren’t just preparing for the next game; we were gearing up to dominate the rest of the season. I liked that and used the motivation to fuel the uncertainty about my future.
I didn’t want to be like some of the guys, the ones who knew they’d never play pro. They didn’t play the same way Hawthorne did. I didn’t want my choices to be taken from me from not performing well enough, so I’d give it my all so I could make the choice to play pro or walk away.
After the weekend, my uncertainty grew of the loss we had.
“Gentleman,” Liam said as he stood on top of a bench in the locker room. “We have two events the next two days, and I want you to take it easy. Have fun, but when we come back after New Year’s, I want to see you refreshed.”
“Yeah, Captain—‘refreshed.’ Does that include nursing hangovers?” someone yelled back.
“What about you, Liam? Planning to ‘refresh’ your slap shot over the break?”
