Puck The Rules: Not Me

The puck slapped against my stick hard enough to jolt my fingers.

Doesn’t matter. I’m in it now.

“Rinaldi move!” Coach snaps. I don’t even look back. I know his voice better than my own heartbeat, and I’ve trained long enough to shut everything out except what’s right in front of me.

I cut left, skate blades tearing up the ice. I slip past a defender who jumps aside a second too late. The roar from the bleachers? I don’t hear it. I’ve learned to tune it out, along with that twitching buzz in my chest that never really goes away before games.

Nothing else matters. Just the movement, the speed. The rhythm when it all clicks.

“Pass!” someone shouts.

I ignore it. The puck stays with me.

I’m about to take the shot when a shadow glides in, skating backward smirk plastered on, eyes locked on me.

Jack.

Of course it’s him.

“Going solo again?” he calls, skating lazy circles, way too casual. “Didn’t know it was selfish night.”

I shift right. He mirrors me, smiling the whole time always center of attention. Even when he’s just being an ass.

“Come on,” Jack says, dropping his voice. “You’re predictable when you’re pissed.”

That does it. I charge at him, refusing to flinch.

Jack flicks the puck away like he’s plucking a pebble off the sidewalk. No sweat, no effort. Like the game wrote itself around him.

“Too easy,” he chirps.

I spin around, biting down words. “Stop talking and play.”

He grins wider. “I am.”

Coach’s whistle slices through it all. “Reset!”

I barely hear him. My teeth grind together. My hands are strangling my stick.

We line up again. I unclench my jaw, shove all thoughts of Jack out of my mind. He’s standing right across the faceoff, looking like he’s waiting for a bus.

“Quiet today,” Jack says.

I stared at the ice, pretending he’s not there.

He leans in. “You mad at me, or are you just like this now?”

I look over. “You ever stop talking?”

“Only when they stop getting annoyed,” he shoots back.

I roll my eyes. “Guess you’ll be talking forever, then.”

Jack smiled. “There he is.”

The puck drops.

I explode off the line, stubborn as hell. Jack keeps up, close but not too close close enough for me to feel him breathing down my neck.

We slam shoulders near the boards enough to sting. Still legal. Still personal.

“Careful,” he whispers. “Might hurt yourself, trying so hard.”

“Worried?” I snap.

“Not really.”

I push ahead. Jack lets me by.

Should’ve mattered. Didn’t.

Because next thing I know—

“Behind you.”

Too late. Someone else snags the puck. I curse under my breath and skate hard to recover.

Jack glides by, slow and smug. “Tunnel vision,” he sing songs.

I spin, glare at him. “Say that again.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

“Keep it to yourself.”

“Or what?”

The ice between us is tight. For a second, nothing exists except that stare down.

“Enough!” Coach barks. “Focus, both of you.”

I’m the one who turns away first. I skate off, anything to keep my mouth shut.

Practice drags… or flies, I can’t really tell. Every time Jack’s voice booms out, I tense up harder.

“Left...left!”

“Nice one!”

“Let’s go again!”

People listen. They always do. There’s gravity around Jack. People want to be in his orbit, laugh at his jokes, follow wherever he leads.

By the end, I want to shatter my stick over the boards. I settle for jamming my gloves into my bag, knuckles screaming.

Coach circles everyone up. “Shortlist tonight. Elite program. Six months. Today matters. Consistency matters more. Don’t show up once and quit on me.”

His eyes bounce to Jack just for a second before skimming away. I see it. Of course I do.

“Dismissed.”

The locker room’s a zoo. Everyone’s jittery and sweaty. I yank off my gear and go through my routine everything in its place. It’s the only way I can breathe.

“Rinaldi.”

I don’t turn. “What.”

Jack. Right there at the next locker. “You think you made it?”

I shrug. “I don’t guess about stuff like that.”

He grins. “Not an answer.”

“And not a conversation I want,” I snap, digging in my bag.

He smiles, but his voice sounds almost… soft. “You’re good, you know.”

I freeze, not more than a half-second. Keep packing. Blank face.

“Yeah? Save it.”

“Hard to compliment you,” he mutters.

“Don’t need one from you.”

His smile wobbles, just a fraction. “Right.”

“Stay out of my way,” I say, hauling my bag onto my shoulder.

“That’s not how hockey works.”

“Figure it out,” I shoot back, and stomp off. I don’t stick around for his answer.

The hallway’s chaos people yelling, jostling, bouncing off the walls. Jack’s already in the middle, I don't know when he got out there, mobbed by admirers.

“Jack, you were amazing!”

“Selfie? Just one!”

Some kid shoves a water bottle at him. Somebody else offers a sweat towel like he just won Olympic gold.

Jack laughs, all charm. “Hey, one at a time!”

“You promised last time!”

“I said maybe,” he says, letting folks snap pictures. Smiling, smooth.

I keep moving. I try not to watch, but I can’t help it. Everybody bends toward Jack like flowers chasing the sun.

“They treat him like a celebrity,” I hear someone mutter. I ignore it. Keep my head down.

I’m almost past when Jack’s eyes meet mine. Like he tuned right into my frequency, even in this crowd. Still grinning, he says low, steady— “Then don’t watch.”

I stop. “Hard not to, when you and your fans block the hall.”

A girl wrinkles her nose at me. “Who’s he?”

Jack gives her a flat smile. “Teammate.”

Nothing else. No name. Just a nobody in the way.

My fingers dig into the straps of my bag. “Move.”

Jack looks at me. Something real almost honest flashes through his eyes.

He steps aside. “After you.”

I shove right past. Don’t look back.

I finally hit the air outside and can breathe again. The cold stings, but I keep heading for the dorms, every step a small act of control.

Footsteps catch up behind.

“Hey, wait up.” Jack.

I don’t slow down.

“Rinaldi.”

I sigh, turn slow enough to make a point. “What?”

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you always this tense, or just when I’m around?”

“Yes,” I say, already leaving.

He laughs. “Good answer.”

I almost let it go, but— “What again?” I glance his way.

He hesitates. “About earlier—”

“Don’t.”

He frowns, actually confused. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like we’re normal.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “We’re fine, Rinaldi.”

I let out a sharp breath. “You don’t get it.”

“Try me.”

“Not worth it,” I say, and start walking.

He calls after me—“Rinaldi!”—but he doesn’t follow this time.

That night, the shortlist goes up. A crowd swarms the wall, reading the names.

I run down the list with my finger. Find mine.

Rinaldi, Luca.

It doesn’t feel like relief. More like, yeah this is what’s supposed to happen.

“Did you make it?”

I don’t answer right away.

Jack’s beside me, reading over my shoulder. He finds his name. “Of course you did.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“Then quit saying it weird.”

His smile twitches. “You always like this?”

“Only when necessary.”

Jack’s eyes scan the list again, land on his name Carter, Jack. He nods, pleased with himself. “Six months,” he says, like it tastes right. He kept his eyes on the list. Something in his expression changed. "This’ll be fun.”

“No,” I answer, turning away. “It won’t.”

“We’ll see!” he calls as I head off.

I don’t look back, but my grip stays locked white on my bag.

Six months, same team, same rink, same everything. I can handle it. I’ve done worse.

But Jack’s voice keeps echoing inside my head. Too easy. Taking up too much room.

No way this is just “interesting.”

This is something else. A problem I can’t walk away from.