Page 140 of This is a Kissing Book

The mood in the locker room hangs heavy with the sting of a season opener loss. Hat trick in my first game back—three goals, two assists—but it wasn’t enough. Chicago beat us five to four, and the kind of performance that should have been a celebration feels pointless when you’re on the losing end.

My teammates sit in various stages of disappointment, some staring at their phones, others removing gear in silence.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash, or perhaps it’s because Jules hasn’t responded to my text. I told her I missed her, which feels inadequate now that I’m sitting here in my gear, remembering the roar of twenty thousand fans cheering for me, when she’s the only one I want saying my name.

My phone buzzes as I’m unlacing my skates.

Unknown number: Your little assistant isn’t exactly what she seems. Check the file I left in your desk drawer. Evidence of fake college transcripts. -M

My blood turns cold. Drecken. Even from whatever hole she’s crawled into, she’s still trying to cause damage. But what does she mean about Jules not being what she seems? Did she fake her degree? I’ve always leaned toward my father being wrong about, well, everything. But he did mention she may not have an authentic diploma. Why wouldn’t she have told me this? The text plants a seed of doubt that grows with every second I stare at the screen.

“Solid play, Linc,” Johannessen calls from across the room, but his usual jokester energy is subdued as he gathers his gear to leave.

I force a smile and nod, but my mind races ahead to getting home to Jules. Whatever Drecken is implying, I need to know the facts or if she’s manipulating me.

The drive to my penthouse takes forever in post-game traffic. Every red light and every slow pedestrian crossing is an obstacle keeping me from the conversation I should have had weeks ago. I should have told Jules about hockey. Should have been honest from the beginning instead of playing the ridiculous game of summer intern.

The elevator ride to my floor stretches taut like a rubber band about to snap. When the doors finally open, I hear movement from the guest room—drawers closing, the rustle of fabric.

“Jules?” I call, dropping my keys on the table by the door.

No response.

I find her stuffing clothes into a clean trash bag. Her motions are rigid, tense.

From the doorway, I say, “Hi.”

She must not hear me.

“What are you doing?” I ask even though it’s obvious.

She doesn’t answer.

“Where are you going?” I lean against the door frame, trying again.

She doesn’t look up.

Her phone beeps with a text. Oly’s name is on the screen. I take that as a reply.

“Why?”

Still nothing. She continues rushing around the room, gathering her things.

The silence stretches between us like a chasm.

“Jules, talk to me.”

She doesn’t even look my way.

“Look, I know you’re upset about something, but leaving isn’t the answer.” I step into the room, and she freezes. “Stay. Please. We can work through whatever this is.”

It’s one of two things: Drecken or hockey. Has to be.

She slams a drawer and finally looks at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, like she’s used up all of her tears.

“Here.” I pull out my wallet and extract my credit card. “Take this. Whatever you need⁠—”

“I don’t want your money, Linc.”