Page 45 of Puck Me Back to Life

The shirt isn't folded particularly well. I shoved it into my bag sometime around two in the morning after finding it abandoned on the floor beside the bed. I probably should have texted him.

Hayes lifts the shirt, and something slips out from inside it. A book lands in his lap.

His eyes widen. He unfolds the shirt completely and looks down at the cover.

A Tale of Two Cities

For the first time since sitting down, he forgets to be embarrassed. His entire focus shifts to the book, and I watch the moment happen across his face: surprise first, then confusion, then the slow realization that I didn't just return the shirt he left behind.

“You bought me a book?”

The question comes out softer than I expected.

I shrug. “You finished the last one.”

Hayes looks between me and the book, then back to me.

I spent twenty minutes in the bookstore next to the hotel finding the thing. Not because I've suddenly developed an interest in literature. Not because I know anything about Dickens beyond the fact that his name sounds like something Dante would make a joke about if given the opportunity.

I bought it because I knew he'd need another one. Because apparently I've become the sort of person who buys books for pretty hockey players and then pretends it means nothing.

Hayes runs his thumb over the cover.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything. The silence between us changes. It becomes less teasing and more careful, as though neither of us knows what to do with this tiny piece of kindness now that it is sitting openly in his lap.

“You didn't have to do that,” he says.

“I didn't want you to be bored on the drive back.”

His gaze lifts. “Thank you.”

The words are simple, but they land somewhere uncomfortable.

He tucks the gray shirt into his bag, but the book stays in his hands.

The first half hour of the bus ride passes quietly. Hayes is already several pages in by the time we leave the hotel parking lot. The rest of the team is either sleeping, scrolling through phones, or arguing across the aisle. Dante has somehow started a debate about breakfast food with three different people and appears to be losing despite changing his opinion twice.

Meanwhile, Hayes is reading.

I watch him turn one page, then another.

Eventually, I get curious. “So?”

He glances up. “So what?”

“Is it any good?”

His eyes drop to the cover, then return to me. “You bought it.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

A small smile appears. “Yes. It's good.”

I nod. Then something occurs to me. “Have you read it before?”

“Yeah.”

I stare at him. “You've already read it?”