GET THAT PUCK

Rules and Exceptions

We cram into my truck—four overgrown idiots packed in with too much cologne, too much ego, and Kane's playlist thumping low like background sin.

And as I pull out of the lot, Liora flashes in my head again—her razor smile, the way she tried to stab me with a pen like it was personal. She can sprint all she wants; she's not getting away. Not from me. Hell, I can practically see her ending up as my best friend's girlfriend. That'd be cute. Chaotic, but cute.

The apartment hits us like a punch: protein powder, stale pizza, and Axe body spray. Classic frat-boy hellscape. Shoes everywhere, a decomposing hockey bag in the corner, and Ace's sweat-soaked practice shirt hanging off a chair like it died there.

We barely cross the threshold before Cierra storms in behind us. Cameron's girlfriend. Again. Tiny, sharp, and built to destroy a man's sanity with nothing but volume.

"Oh, you're home," she snaps, eyes glued to Cam like she's reading him his rights. "You didn't answer my texts."

Cam drops his keys like he's preparing for execution. "I was at practice, C."

"That's your excuse for everything." She crosses her arms, glaring like she caught him mid-crime, even though he literally walked in with us.

Ace flops onto the couch, grinning like this is free entertainment. "Round three, fight."

Kane leans against the fridge, sipping water like he's watching a nature documentary instead of actual human conflict.

Cam rubs a hand over his face. "You texted me four times in the last hour. What did you want me to say?"

"That you care," she fires back, voice pitching higher. "That you think about me when you're not—" her eyes cut to us, "—with them."

I raise a brow. "Yikes. We're capital-T 'Them' now."

Cam shoots me a warning look, but Cierra's too deep in her meltdown to notice. "You don't make time for me. You don't even try!"

"C, I do try," he says, voice worn thin. "But I've got hockey, I've got classes, I've got—"

"Excuses." She slices him off, grabs her bag, and storms toward the door. "Call me when you actually grow up."

The door slams so hard the picture frame above the TV rattles like it's trying to escape. Silence stretches, thick and awkward, before Ace lets out a low whistle.

"Brutal."

"Car-crash brutal," I add. "Like, slow-motion, flaming wreckage brutal."

Cam collapses onto the couch, burying his head in his hands. "Don't start."

Kane finally chimes in, all calm detachment. "You sure she's worth it?"

"Of course she's worth it," Cam mutters—except it sounds like a question he doesn't want answered.

"Bro," Ace says, smirking, "she just declared war on us. Us. And I refuse to die in the crossfire because your girl hates that you share air with other humans."

Cam groans. "She's just... intense. She means well."

"Intense is generous," I say, flicking a crusty hockey sock at him. "Tornado might be closer."

Cam shoots me a look, but the pink creeping up his neck gives him away. He knows we're right. He's just allergic to admitting it.

By the time the guys finish picking Cam apart like vultures circling the last scraps of his dignity, I'm done. My head's buzzing, the apartment reeks of Axe and leftover testosterone, and if I hear Ace describe Cierra as "a walking red flag wrapped in lip gloss" one more time, I'm swan-diving off the balcony.