“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t look like it.”
We reset. I tell myself to focus. Just play. That’s it. Simple.
But my legs move before my brain catches up, and when the puck comes flying toward me again, I hesitate. Rocky’s already on me, ripping it away and skating past.
He blows the whistle himself, stopping short in front of me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I shrug. “Messing around.”
“Bullshit.” He leans on his stick, breathing hard. “You don’t mess around.”
I don’t answer.
We start up again, and I push harder, throwing my body into it. I purposely skate in front of Rocky, just to feel something. The impact rattles my teeth, and I welcome it. Rocky slams into me, knocking me off balance.
Coach barks something, but I’m staring at Rocky.
“Alright,” Rocky says, grabbing my jersey before I can skate away. “Enough of this shit.”
I look at him. “What?”
“We need you for the games this weekend,” he says. His voice drops, serious now. “Heard you’re getting benched for academics, but guess what? I’m not going to fucking vouch for you if you’re playing this shitty.”
That lands harder than the hit.
I open my mouth, then close it. “I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “You’re fucking up, Etta.” He points at his head. “I can see it in your eyes. And when you’re on it, it fucks with everyone else.”
Coach’s whistle shrills from the entrance, cutting through the noise. “Dylan. Rocky. Over here.”
Rocky gives me one last look before skating off. “Figure it out,” he mutters.
I skate toward Coach, my chest tight. He doesn’t look pissed. That somehow makes it worse.
“I heard from the advisor,” he says.
I nod. “I’m working on it.”
“Working on it isn’t the same as finishing it. You’re so close, Etta.” He folds his arms. “You know what’s at stake.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He watches me for a second. “We’ll see how the week goes.”
That’s it. No lecture. No punishment. Just uncertainty.
I nod again and skate back out, my jaw clenched.
Practice wraps up without much else being said, but I can feel the eyes on me, the space I usually own feeling… thinner.
In the locker room, the guys are loud, joking, pulling off gear. I sit on the bench and untie my skates slower than usual.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a second, my chest tightens, stupidly hopeful.
