It’s not her.
I check anyway. The screen lights up, and there it is. The last thing I said to her.
No.
Just sitting there. No reply under it. No follow-up. Nothing. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t argue. I lock my phone and shove it back in my bag.
Rocky slaps my shoulder as he passes. “Don’t fuck this up, man.”
Scott stares at me like he knows what’s going on. Westley minds his own business.
“I won’t,” I say automatically.
But as the locker room empties and the noise fades, I’m not so sure.
I grab my bag and head out into the cold, the rink lights buzzing behind me. My head feels heavy, like I’ve been running all day without actually going anywhere.
I did what I was supposed to do. I cut out distractions. Focused. Got help. Put my head down.
And it still wasn’t enough.
I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag and keep walking.
This is why I don’t let things get complicated.
It’s Friday, and I sling my duffel over my shoulder to step up onto the bus. I nod at a couple of the guys already sprawled across the seats. Headphones in. Hoods up. Everyone half-asleep, half-locked in.
I’m about to drop into a seat when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise.
“Etta. Hang back.”
A few guys glance over. Rocky lifts his brows at me from two rows up. I shrug like it’s nothing and step back off the bus.
Coach waits until the door hisses shut behind the last guy before speaking. He looks tired, as if he didn’t sleep much either.
“I talked to your advisor again this morning,” he says.
My chest tightens. I nod. “Okay.”
“You pulled your grades up enough that you’re not in immediate danger anymore.”
Relief hits fast and sharp. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“But,” he continues, and I already know there’s a but, “it’s not enough yet.”
My jaw locks.
“You’re sitting on Friday.”
The words land heavily.
I blink. “Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Saturday?”
“I pulled some strings,” he cuts in. “You’re cleared to play tomorrow. That’s not me being nice. That’s me believing you can handle it.”
