This time, Desrosiers won, pinning me against the glass. As he swept the puck away, he muttered, "You're playing scared."
I straightened, breath coming hard. "What?"
"Scared." He circled back for the next rep, not looking at me. "You hit like you're trying to prove something instead of just hitting. Different energy."
Coach's whistle blew before I could respond.
We ran the drill four more times. By the sixth rep, my lungs burned, and Desrosiers was breathing hard, but his words stuck to my ribs harder than any check. The clock read 12:02.
Two hours left.
It ticked away like a countdown, each minute bringing me closer to sitting across from Rhett and trying to figure out how to be both versions of myself without performing either one.
"Water break!" Coach called.
I skated to the bench and grabbed my bottle, but my hands were shaking again when I lifted it to my mouth. Water hit my jersey as much as my face.
"Smooth," Jake said, appearing beside me. "Very attractive. Really selling the 'I've got my shit together' vibe."
"A few nerves. That's all."
"You're a disaster." He bumped my shoulder. "But here's the thing—he already knows you're a disaster. He kissed you anyway. At midnight. In front of everyone. That's not a guy who's expecting perfect."
Evan skated up to my other side. "I think he likes you. The real you. Not the edited version."
"You don't know that."
"No," Evan agreed. "But I saw the photo. And people don't look at someone like that if they're planning to ask them to be less."
I thought about the message I'd received early in the morning:
Rhett:Been thinking about you.
I hadn't responded yet. Hadn't known what to say that didn't sound desperate or terrified.
"You're gonna check your phone the second practice ends," Evan said.
"I am not."
Coach barked. "Back on the ice! Conditioning drills! Let's see who had too much eggnog over the holidays!"
We lined up for suicide sprints—my favorite form of torture. Coach raised his whistle, and I pushed off, hitting the first line at full speed.
Blue line. Back. Red line. Back. Far blue line. Back. All the way to the boards and return.
By the third set, Pickle gasped for breath. By the fifth, half the team bent over at the bench.
A dull pinch bloomed under my left rib—old bruise complaining—but I leaned on the burn and kept going. I pushed harder and faster, until my lungs burned and my thighs screamed. There was no room left in my head for anything except the next sprint.
When Coach finally blew the final whistle, I collapsed at center ice, flat on my back, staring up at the flickering lights.
Jake dropped down beside me, breathing hard. "You trying to kill yourself before the date?"
"Conditioning."
"That was homicidal conditioning." He turned his head to look at me. "You gonna survive the next hour?"
"No."
