Page 38 of Pucking Forbidden

JULIAN

“It’s just a bunch of nonsense on the news anyway,” Mrs. Clay’s voice crackles through my truck’s Bluetooth speakers, accompanied by the distinct, rhythmic clink of ceramic mugs being stacked in her dish rack. “I don’t even like to watch it anymore.”

I let out a small chuckle. “Not even the Today show?”

“That’s not news,” she declares with a click of her tone. “That’s just entertainment.”

She sounds more bubbly this morning, even though we’re not really talking about anything substantial. Just general, casual chitchat. My relief at this is immediately followed by that familiar, bitter sting of guilt. I should be there. I shouldn't be tracking the health of the woman who raised me through the audio quality of a phone call.

“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” I reply with a sigh. “It’s a lot less stressful. Better for your mental health, probably.”

The early October air slaps me right in the face through the cracked driver’s side window, a brutal, freezing wake-up call as I navigate the morning traffic toward the stadium.

“You sound tired.” There’s a note of concern in her voice. Ironic, given how worried I’ve been about her lately.

The comment catches me off-guard. My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My mind scrambles. If she notices it over a hands-free cellular connection, I must look like absolute death. I didn't even realize how deeply the exhaustion had settled into my bones, but weeks of brutal, high-intensity practices mixed with a completely restless mind will do that to a man.

Mostly, it's the restless mind.

My eyes track toward the passenger seat, where my phone sits. Apart from my phone call with Mrs. Clay, there are no new notifications. No texts from Hadley.

Ever since that morning in her apartment, my brain has been a dangerous, looping mess. We’ve both been so busy we’ve only traded a few brief, casual messages over the last week, but it’s not enough. Not even close. Every single morning when I pull my truck into the stadium lot, my chest tightens with a desperate, pathetic hope. I find myself hoping I’ll find her in the rink again.

“Julian? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just heading to practice.”

“All right,” she replies. She doesn’t sound that sure. “Your Coach isn’t pushing you too hard, is he?”

“Nah,” I chuckle. “It’s just part of the job.”

“Julian.” She uses the tone she always used on me when I was a kid and didn’t want to go into detail about the latest shit my dad had put me through.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, softer this time.

“You’ll tell me if you’re not.” It’s not a question.

Releasing a long, jagged sigh that fogs up the windshield, I murmur, “I will. I promise.”

It’s not entirely a lie, but it feels heavy in my throat. I know I’d tell her if I broke a rib or took a puck to the face, but I’d never tell her about the bone-deep weariness of trying to be the man she needs me to be while my head is spinning over a girl I can't touch.

“And you?” I counter, my voice dropping an octave as I lean my head back against the headrest. I try to catch her off guard, pushing for the same transparency she demands from me. “You’re going to tell me when the fatigue hits? No more hiding behind the sound of those dishes, Gram. I need to know you’re okay, too.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the clinking in her kitchen stopping abruptly. For a second, I think I’ve actually cracked through that stubborn shell of hers. I can almost picture her standing there, hand on her hip, weighing how much truth I can handle.

“Don’t you worry about this old bird,” she finally hums, her voice regaining its bubbly tone. “I’m thriving. You just worry about staying upright on that ice.”

I chuckle. She’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as proud, giving me just enough of a non-answer to keep me from catching a flight home this afternoon.

“I’m serious,” I mutter, my grip on the steering wheel tightening. “I’m a phone call away. Always.”

“Alright,” she concedes eventually. “I’ll let you know if anything is wrong, but I promise, I’m fine. Now stop bugging me.”

Always so stubborn. “Okay. I gotta go, Gram. I’m just about to the stadium.”

“All right, dear. Have a good practice.”

I grin. “Talk to you later.”