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

31. Breck

31

Breck

The soggy remains of my breakfast stare back at me, a sad reflection of my current state. I can't even remember what I was trying to eat. Pancakes? Toast? It's all just a beige mush now, congealing on the plate like my thoughts have congealed in my head.

I reach for my coffee, hoping for a jolt of caffeine to shake me out of this fog, but it's stone cold. Great. Just great. I can't even manage to drink a cup of coffee while it's still hot. What kind of useless lump am I turning into?

My eyes drift around the kitchen, taking in the disaster zone that used to be my pride and joy. Dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, the counter where I used to spend hours kneading dough and decorating cupcakes is bare, save for a thin layer of dust.

The guys usually pull their weight, but they’ve been avoiding me. Can’t say I blame them; I’m a miserable fuck to be around these days.

God, when was the last time I baked anything?

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest. Baking was always my go-to when I needed to clear my head or work through a problem. But now? The idea of measuring out flour and sugar feels as insurmountable as climbing Everest.

"Yo, Breck! Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

Micah's voice cuts through my brooding, followed by a hearty slap on my shoulder that nearly sends me face-first into my congealed breakfast.

"Jesus, Leif," I grumble, rubbing my shoulder. "You trying to dislocate something before practice?"

He grins, completely unfazed by my sour mood. "Nah, just making sure you're still with us, man. You've been walking around like a zombie for weeks."

I grunt, not really in the mood for his chipper attitude. "Yeah, well, breakups tend to do that to a guy."

Micah's face softens a bit. "I know, bro. But you can't keep wallowing like this. Come on, practice will do you good. Get the blood pumping, you know?"

I highly doubt that, but I don't have the energy to argue. With a heavy sigh, I push myself up from the table, my legs feeling like they're made of lead.

As we make our way to Hunter's Hollow, I try to psych myself up. Hockey has always been my escape, my passion. Surely, once I hit the ice, I'll be able to forget about everything else for a while.

But from the moment I lace up my skates, I know it's not going to be that simple. My movements are sluggish, my reactions delayed. It's like I'm skating through molasses, my mind a million miles away from the drills we're running.

"Monroe! What the hell was that?" Coach's voice booms across the ice as I flub yet another simple pass. "My grandma could make that play, and she's been dead for ten years!"

I mumble an apology, but I can barely hear my own voice over the roaring in my ears. All I can think about is Delaney's face, the hurt and anger in her eyes as she walked away from me. From us.

God, how did everything go so wrong so fast?

Coach skates over, his face a mask of frustration. "Monroe, I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to get your head in the game. This isn't beer league hockey."

I nod mechanically, but the words barely register. My mind is replaying Delaney's last words to me on an endless loop. " “We’re done.”

"You hearing me, Monroe?" Coach's voice cuts through my haze.

"Yeah, Coach. Sorry. I'll do better," I mutter, not meeting his eyes.

He sighs, his tone softening slightly. "Look, kid. Whatever's eating at you, leave it at the door when you come here. We need you focused."

I nod again, feeling a twinge of guilt. I'm letting my team down, but I can't seem to shake this fog.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I go through the motions, but my heart isn't in it. My teammates shoot concerned glances my way, but I avoid their eyes, dreading the inevitable questions.

Later that night, I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The red numbers on my alarm clock mock me as they tick towards dawn. 3:17 AM. 3:18 AM. Each minute feels like an eternity.

I reach for my phone, desperate for a distraction. My thumb hovers over Delaney's contact. God, I want to call her. To hear her voice. To beg her to give us another chance.

But what would I even say?

The dam finally breaks after dawn.

I hurl my phone across the room with a guttural roar, watching it smash against the wall. The impact leaves a dent in the drywall, but I'm beyond caring. My chest heaves as I grab the nearest object—a desk chair—and fling it with all my might. It crashes into my bookshelf, sending hockey trophies and framed photos clattering to the floor.

"Fuck!" I scream, my voice raw and broken. Hot tears stream down my face as I sink to my knees, surrounded by the wreckage of my room—a perfect mirror of my shattered heart.

A soft knock at the door barely registers through my anguish.

"Breck?" Birdie's gentle voice filters through. "Can we come in?"

I don't respond, but the door creaks open anyway. Birdie's petite form appears, her blue eyes wide with concern. Greer looms behind her, her sharp gaze taking in the chaos.

"Oh, honey," Birdie breathes, carefully picking her way through the debris to reach me. She perches on the edge of my bed, her hand hovering uncertainly over my shoulder.

I can't bring myself to look at her. "I'm fine," I croak, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

Greer snorts, toeing a pile of dirty laundry with her sneaker. "Yeah, you're the picture of 'fine,' Monroe. When's the last time you did laundry? Or showered?"

I bristle at her tone, but can't summon the energy to snap back. Instead, I mumble, "What are you two doing here?"

Birdie's voice is soft, laced with worry. "We were worried about you. You haven't been answering anyone's texts, and Ty said you've been... off at practice."

"That's an understatement," Greer mutters, earning a sharp look from Birdie.

I run a hand through my hair, grimacing at the greasy feel. "I just... I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "How to be without her."

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of Birdie shifting closer, her warmth a silent comfort.

Birdie's gentle voice cuts through the haze of my misery. "Breck, honey... if you love her so much, why aren't you fighting for her?"

The question hits me like a slap, and I flinch. My eyes burn as I remember the last time I saw Del, the way her green eyes had flashed with hurt and anger. "You didn't see her face, Birdie," I choke out. "You didn't hear how she... God, she thinks I'm the kind of guy who'd brag about our sex life. Who'd let those assholes talk about her like that."

My fists clench in the tangled sheets. I can still hear the venom in Del's voice, see the disgust twisting her beautiful features. The memory makes me want to punch something again, but I'm too damn tired.

"She looked at me like I was worse than dirt," I continue, my voice cracking. "How am I supposed to fight for someone who thinks I'm capable of that?"

Greer sighs, and I glance up to see her leaning against my dresser, arms crossed. Her perpetual scowl has softened slightly, which is somehow more unsettling than her usual resting bitch face.

"Look, Monroe," she says, her tone gruff but not unkind. "Del hasn't exactly had the best track record with relationships. It's kind of a miracle she let you in at all."

I blink, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Greer's gaze flicks to Birdie, then back to me. "She's always going to think the worst, because that's what she's been shown. Over and over again."

My brow furrows as I try to process this. I know she had a bad breakup. She never said anything, but I can put two and two together. That fuck clearly cheated on her.

“Do you know what happened with her and Rafe?”

“She never talked about it. I mean, I read between the lines, but not really.”

Greer runs a hand through her short blonde hair, her expression uncharacteristically hesitant. "Look, she doesn't talk about it, but it was hard not to see what was going on. Del and Rafe were together for years."

My stomach clenches at the mention of Del's ex. I will never understand what she saw in that piece of shit.

"No one really knew why they didn't partner together," Greer continues, her voice low. "But she was partnered with his best friend. And then..." She pauses, her face twisting with disgust. "She walked in on Rafe fucking Dakota. In their hotel room."

"Jesus," I breathe.

Greer's not done. "And instead of accepting that he'd lost her, Rafe went on a warpath. Manipulated everyone and everything until Del lost her partner and her shot at the Olympics that year."

I sit up straighter, anger flaring in my chest. "He what ?"

"Yeah," Greer cuts me off, her tone sharp. "So now you get it. She's always going to assume the worst. And if you want her, then you need to show her that she can trust you. Really trust you."

I nod slowly, my mind racing. "How do I do that?"

Greer shrugs. "Hell if I know. But you better figure it out fast, lover boy."

As they leave, I flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. How do I prove to Del that I'm not like Rafe? That I would never hurt her like that?

The answer hits me like a slap shot to the face. I can't tell her—I have to show her.

??????

I stand in front of the Glissade Center, my heart pounding like I'm about to step onto the ice for the championship game. Which, I will be soon. Hopefully. If coach doesn’t bench me after my abysmal performance the last two weeks.

In my hands, I'm clutching a small, neatly wrapped package. It's stupid o'clock in the morning, way before Del's usual practice time, but I know she'll be here soon. She always is.

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon as I spot her familiar figure approaching. My breath catches in my throat. Even in the dim light, her blonde hair gleams like a beacon, drawing me in.

"Del," I call out softly, not wanting to startle her.

She freezes, those intense green eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I'm worried she'll turn and bolt. But she doesn't. She just stands there, wary, like a deer ready to flee at the slightest movement.

I take a deep breath. "I, uh... I made you something." I hold out the package, trying to keep my hand from shaking. "It's not much, just some of those cinnamon rolls you liked. The ones from—from…"

"Breck," she interrupts, her voice a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "What are you doing here?"

I swallow hard. "I'm here because... because I need you to know that I'm not going anywhere. That I'm still here, and I still..." The words catch in my throat. God, why is this so hard? "I still love you, Del. And I support you, no matter what."

She doesn't move, doesn't speak. The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I want to fill it, to ramble on about how much she means to me, but I force myself to wait. To let her process.

Finally, she takes a step forward. "You didn't have to do this," she says softly, but there's a hint of something in her voice. Uncertainty? Hope? I can't quite tell.

"I wanted to," I reply, my voice equally quiet. "I'll always want to."

And, I do. The days bleed together in a blur of emptiness, but I keep showing up. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on the ice, it’s that persistence can change the game, even in the final period. So, I dig in.

I show up at her practice with coffee on mornings when I know she’s got back-to-back sessions. I leave a single sunflower on her car windshield one afternoon, no note, because she once told me they were her favorite. I don’t push, don’t hover. Just small things, little gestures to remind her I’m still here.

She hasn't reached out, hasn't spoken to me. And, maybe she never will. But I know this: I’ll keep showing up, every day, because loving her means not giving up. And I never back down from a fight worth winning.