Puck Me, I’m Yours (Hawthorne University Hockey #1)

8. Delaney

8

Delaney

I don’t have time for this shit. I really don’t. My life’s already a juggling act, and there’s no space left for distractions—especially not for hockey players with questionable motives and goofy smiles that somehow worm their way under my skin.

So why the hell am I texting him back?

I shake my head, trying to shake off the ridiculous pull he has on me. It’s like I’ve forgotten every reason I should stay focused, every reason I should keep my distance.

I'm sprawled on the loveseat, staring at my phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secrets to why I can't stop smiling every time Breck's name pops up on my screen.

"What's got you grinning like that?" Greer drawls, peering over her laptop.

I quickly lock my phone. "Nothing."

She raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Nothing named Breck Monroe, I'm sure."

I roll my eyes, but I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "We're just texting."

"Just texting," Greer mimics, closing her laptop. "Del, you've been 'just texting' for days now. Spill."

I sigh, rolling onto my back. "I don't know. He's... different than I expected."

"Different how?"

I bite my lip, trying to find the right words. "He's charming, yeah, but not in that fake way some guys are. He asks about my routines, my classes. He remembers little details I mention."

Greer's eyes light up. "Ooh, like what?"

"Like how I always have a chai latte before practice. This morning he asked if I'd tried the new seasonal blend at True Brew."

"Aww, that's sweet," Greer coos.

I grab a pillow and hug it to my chest. "It is. And that's the problem."

Greer frowns. "How is that a problem?"

I stare at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks with my eyes. "Because every time I see his name pop up, I get this... spark. This little jolt of excitement. And I can't afford to be distracted right now."

"Del," Greer says, her voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. "It's okay to feel something, you know. You're allowed to like someone."

I turn my head to look at her. "But what if it messes everything up? My routines, my focus..."

Greer gets up and flops down next to me on the couch. "Or what if it doesn't? What if it makes you happier, and that actually helps your skating?"

I let out a long breath. "Maybe. I just... I don't know how to do this."

Greer bumps my shoulder with hers. "Nobody does at first. But for what it's worth, I think Breck's a good guy. I wouldn't have given him your number if I didn't."

“I just…I don’t want to get hurt again. After Rafe…”

“Fuck Rafe. That dude is a grade A piece of shit. Everyone saw that but you, babe. Breck is one of the good ones, okay? Let him in.”

I smile despite myself. "Thanks, Greer."

My phone buzzes, and I can't help the way my heart skips. Greer notices and smirks.

"Go on," she says, rolling off the couch. "Answer your not-boyfriend."

I throw the pillow at her retreating back, but I'm already reaching for my phone, that familiar spark igniting as I see Breck's name.

Maybe she’s right and this spark is worth exploring.

But as I glance at the stack of notes on my table, reality crashes back like a cold splash of water. It’s not just the choreography. It’s the homework, and the test I have next week, and…fucking everything I have on my plate. I don’t have room for anything else.

"Focus, Del," I mutter, setting the phone aside.

I grab my notebook, flipping through pages of half-formed ideas and scribbled formations. The upcoming competition looms like a shadow, and I can practically hear the ticking clock in my head.

My fingers hover over the keypad, itching to reply to Breck. His last message hints at grabbing coffee, and for a split second, I imagine us at True Brew, laughing over steaming mugs of Hunter's Blend.

But no. I can't. I won't.

"Sorry, Breck," I whisper, closing the messaging app. "I've got a date with the ice instead."

Hours later, I'm at the Glissade, running through my short program for the thousandth time. Lachlan and I move in sync, our blades carving precise patterns into the pristine surface.

As we pause for a water break, I notice a familiar figure in the stands. My heart does a little flip that has nothing to do with the jump I just nailed.

Lachlan follows my gaze and snorts. "Don't look now, but your personal cheerleader is back. Should we sign him up as your hype man or just call him your groupie?"

I feel my cheeks flush. "He's not— We're not— It's nothing."

"Uh-huh," Lachlan says, his tone dripping with skepticism. "That's why he's here every day, even though the clinic ended last week."

I take a long swig of water to avoid answering. Because how can I explain something I don't even understand myself?

I'm about to retort when Breck starts making his way down from the stands. My stomach does a little somersault as he approaches, all easy grace and that disarming smile.

"Hey, Del," he says, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "That last run-through was insane. The way you transitioned from that Biellmann spin into the Needle? Mind-blowing."

I blink, caught off guard. "You... noticed that?"

He nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, and the musicality in your step sequence is really coming together. It's like you're telling a story with every move."

My brain short-circuits for a moment. Since when does a hockey player know figure skating terminology? What’s more, when do they understand it?

"Thanks," I manage, trying to keep my voice neutral. "I've been working on making it more fluid."

"It shows," Breck says, leaning against the pillar. "Hey, I was wondering about that new element you added after the flying sit spin. Is that a hydroblading move?"

I can't help but smile, impressed by his observation. "Good eye. Yeah, it's a modified hydroblade. We’re trying to increase the difficulty score without sacrificing artistry."

As we dive deeper into the intricacies of my routine, I feel my usual guardedness start to slip. There's something disarmingly genuine about Breck's interest, and I find myself gesturing animatedly as I explain the choreographic choices.

It's only when I catch Lachlan's knowing smirk that I realize I've been talking for several minutes straight, my usual terseness completely forgotten. I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious.

"Anyway, um, thanks for noticing," I say, taking a step back. "I should probably get back to practice."

Breck's smile doesn't falter. "Of course. Don't let me keep you. But Del? It's really incredible to watch you work. You're... something else."

As he walks away, I'm left with a strange warmth in my chest and an unsettling realization: for the first time in ages, I'd completely forgotten about my stress, my deadlines, my carefully constructed walls. And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.

That night, I stare at my phone, the blank message field taunting me. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly. The clock on my nightstand blinks 10:47 PM, and I can practically hear my internal voice screaming that I should be reviewing my notes for my econ exam instead of agonizing over a text.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, flopping back onto my pillow. "He's just a guy. A guy who's way too interested in figure skating for someone who plays hockey."

But as I close my eyes, I see Breck's earnest expression as he asked about my hydroblade, the way his eyes lit up when I explained the technical aspects. It's been so long since anyone outside the skating world showed genuine interest in my craft.

And, he’s always the one texting me. I can make the effort for once, can’t I?

I sit up abruptly, snatching my phone. Before I can overthink it, I type:

You’re always watching my practices. Why don’t you tell me about yours?

My finger hovers over 'send' for a solid minute before I finally press it, immediately tossing the phone aside like it's on fire. "There," I say to my empty room. "Totally casual. Just asking about his schedule. No big deal."

I try to focus on my econ notes, but my eyes keep darting to my silent phone. What if he's asleep? What if he thinks it's weird I'm texting so late? What if—

The phone buzzes, and I nearly fall off the bed reaching for it.

Hey! Practices are mornings, bright and early—gotta earn my spot before the season starts next month. But if you're curious, you're welcome to come watch sometime. Fair's fair, right? Planning to come cheer us on? ;)

I bite my lip, fighting a smile. "Don't read into the winky face," I mutter. "He probably sends those to everyone."

Maybe. If my practice schedule allows. How's the team looking this season?

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. This time, his reply comes faster.

Honestly? We're solid, but there's always room for improvement. Coach has us drilling power plays like crazy. Sometimes I feel like I'm gonna see blue lines in my sleep.

I laugh softly, picturing Breck dreaming of hockey plays. It's... oddly endearing.

I get that. Sometimes I catch myself doing pirouettes while brushing my teeth.

As soon as I send it, I cringe. "Way to be a total dork, Del," I groan. But Breck's response is quick and enthusiastic.

Now that's something I'd pay to see! Toothbrush choreography by Delaney Quinn. It'd probably still score a perfect 10.

I feel a warmth spreading through my chest, and I can't quite suppress my smile. For a moment, I forget about the pressure, the upcoming competitions, the constant need to be perfect. For just this moment, I'm just a girl, texting a boy, feeling that spark of connection.

And it's terrifying. And exhilarating.

I take a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Something about Breck's easy charm makes me want to open up, just a little.

Perfect 10s are overrated. I'd settle for not falling on my ass during nationals.

I hit send, then immediately regret it. Too vulnerable. Too real. But Breck's response is almost instantaneous.

Hey, I've seen you skate. If anyone's got a shot at perfection, it's you. But... I get it. The pressure's insane, right?

I stare at his message, a lump forming in my throat. He gets it. Before I can respond, another text pops up.

Can I tell you something? Promise not to laugh?

Scout's honor.

I threw up before my first college game. Like, full-on projectile vomit in the locker room sink. Poor Axel thought I was dying.

I snort, then clap a hand over my mouth. I shouldn't find that funny, but the mental image is too much.

I definitely did NOT laugh. Swear.

Hey, sometimes you gotta laugh or you'll cry, right? But seriously, the pressure nearly broke me that day. Still does sometimes.

I curl up tighter on my bed, clutching my phone like a lifeline. His honesty hits me like a punch to the gut, breaking through my carefully constructed walls.

How do you handle it?

There's a pause, and I can almost see him thinking, running a hand through that ridiculous mullet of his. And then my phone lights up. It’s a call. He’s calling . Shit. Fuck. What do I do?

Oh, I don’t know dumbass. Answer, maybe?

“Hey.” Totally cool, Del. You’re nailing this.”

“Hey.”

Breck’s voice is warm, a little unsure, and I swear I can hear him smiling. There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for my brain to overthink everything. Then:

“Uh, is this okay?” he asks, his voice softening. “Me calling, I mean. I know it’s late. I just…thought maybe this’d be easier than texting?”

I clutch my phone tighter, glancing at the pile of notes and half-highlighted textbooks spread across my bed. “Yeah, it’s fine,” I manage, forcing my voice to sound steady. “I mean, I don’t mind.”

“Cool,” he says, sounding relieved. “Because, full disclosure, I’m terrible at texting. Like, I reread your messages five times before I answer just to make sure I don’t sound like an idiot.”

I laugh, tension easing out of me. “You’re doing fine so far.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says, the teasing lilt back in his voice.

"How do I handle it, huh? Honestly? I bake. Sounds dumb, but there's something about kneading dough or mixing up a new batch of something sweet that just... helps, you know? What about you?"

I hesitate Do I tell him? But something in me wants to match his vulnerability, to show him he's not alone.

"I... I count. Everything. Steps, rotations, ceiling tiles. It's like... if I can control the numbers, maybe I can control everything else."

My heart is racing. I can’t believe I just said that. I've never told anyone that before, not even Lachlan. Not even Rafe when things were good.

I hold my breath, waiting for his response. What if he thinks I'm weird? What if—

"That's actually kind of brilliant. Does it help?"

I exhale, relief washing over me. No judgment, just genuine curiosity. "Most of the time. Sometimes it just makes me more anxious."

"Well, if you ever need a distraction from the numbers, I've got a killer recipe for stress-relief cookies. They're basically just chocolate chip, but baking them while wearing a ridiculous hat is mandatory."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising me. I can picture him in his kitchen, flour-dusted and wearing some absurd novelty hat.

"Sounds messy. And potentially hazardous."

"That's half the fun! But seriously, Del... thanks for sharing that with me. I know it's not easy to let people in."

There's a warmth spreading through my chest, one I don’t know how to handle.

"Thanks for listening. And for, you know, the projectile vomit story. Really puts things in perspective."

"Anytime. That's what friends are for, right?"

Friends. The word should make me panic, should have me building walls and creating distance. But instead, I find myself smiling. Maybe letting someone in isn't as terrifying as I thought. Maybe Breck Monroe, with his ridiculous hair and his baking habits, isn't a distraction to avoid, but a connection worth exploring.

"Right. Friends."

But, I think I want more.