Page 18 of Puck Me Back to Life

This time I'm not talking about the fight. Ash seems to understand that.

His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “No problem, Hayes.”

Then he stands and heads toward the showers. I watch him go for a second longer than I should.

Long enough to feel ridiculous.

Long enough to remind myself that this is a terrible idea.

Long enough to realize I'm smiling.

The smile disappears almost immediately.

But for a moment... it was there.

The city is dark by the time I pull into my apartment building's parking garage. My body is exhausted. The adrenaline from the game has finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that settles into every part of me.

You should have been the one who died.

The sentence follows me all the way into the elevator. It follows me down the hallway. It follows me to my front door. By the time I unlock my apartment, I can practically hear it echoing around the inside of my skull.

I barely make it three steps inside before somebody starts knocking. Three quick knocks. Pause. Two more.

I smile despite myself. Only one person knocks like that. I pull the door open.

Angela is standing there in sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie. Her dark curls are piled messily on top of her head, and she's holding Cleveland against her chest like an oversized orange football.

The cat looks annoyed. Which is his default expression.

Angela's eyes immediately narrow. “You look terrible.”

I laugh. “Good evening to you, too.”

“I'm serious.” She points directly at my ribs. “You got launched into those boards.”

I lean against the doorframe. “I'm fine. Sweet of you to watch me get wrecked, though.”

She makes a face. “I’m fine is exactly what people say right before they collapse dramatically.”

“I'm not going to collapse dramatically.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel like I'd know by now. Also, the medic cleared me.”

Angela studies me. The concern in her eyes is immediate and genuine. It's one of the things I like most about her.

“Sorry you lost, but you were like a bat out of hell out there. It was crazy.”

Angela has watched almost every game since we became friends. Not because she enjoys hockey. (She doesn't. She's very open about that.) She watches because she knows it matters to me. Or at least it used to.

“Yeah?”

She nods, moving Cleveland higher on her hip. “Have you watched the replay yet?”

My stomach immediately tightens. “No.”

The answer comes out sharper than I intended. Angela notices. She's annoyingly observant.