Had he figured it out?Had he realized that “stomach flu” was a lie and seen two pairs of shoes by the bed?Or worse, had he heard us before he knocked?
“Copy,” I said, my voice tight.
Ryan skated by, tapping my pads with his stick.“Principal’s office?”
I searched his face for a sign—judgment, disgust, a smirk.Nothing but the usual chirping grin.If he knew he’d almost walked in on me hooking up with my roommate, he was hiding it well.
“Probably film review,” I lied, though my pulse was hammering against my neck protector.“I was late on the post-seal during the penalty kill.”
Ryan didn’t look convinced, but he let me go.
I showered in record time—three minutes, cold water, no soap—and threw on my team tracksuit.I ran a hand through my wet hair as I walked down the concrete tunnel toward the admin offices.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.A text from Austen:Ledger review at 8?I have snacks.
I looked at the screen.For the last month, that text would have been the highlight of my day.Ledger reviewwas code.It meant locking the door.It meant the quiet heat of his skin against mine.
But now, looking at the words, all I could think about was the sound of Ryan’s fist pounding on the wood.Boom.Boom.Boom.
How fast the air had left the room.Austen scrambling for a shirt, his eyes wide with a panic that I had put there.
I slid the phone back into my pocket without replying and knocked on Harper’s door.
“Enter.”
I stepped inside.The office was small, smelling of dry-erase markers and stale coffee.But today, the air was heavier.
Harper wasn’t alone.
Sitting in the folding metal chair opposite her desk was a man who looked like he’d been ironed into existence.Navy suit, gray tie, haircut that cost more than my tuition.He held a tablet like a weapon.
“Have a seat, Luke,” Harper said.She didn’t smile.
I sat.My knee started bouncing instantly.I forced it to stop.
“As you know, this is Gulliver Vane,” Harper said.“He’s with the Minnesota organization.”
The air left the room.The Minnesota Wilds.The team my dad had played on for two seasons before his knee exploded.The team that was practically a religion in my house.
“Mr.Carter,” Vane said.His voice was smooth, polished.He didn’t offer a hand.“I’ve been watching your lateral movement.Your recovery time is… elite.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re looking at our roster for the summer Development Camp in St.Paul,” Vane continued.“It’s an invite-only camp.Eight goalies.Two contracts at the end of it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.This was it.The conversation I’d played in my head since I was four years old, strapping pillows to my legs in the driveway.
“I’d be honored,” I said, my voice sounding thin.
“We think you’re ready,” Vane said.He tapped the tablet.“We like your numbers.We like your size.”He paused, his eyes narrowing.“And we appreciate the context your father provided.”
The room went dead silent.
“My father?”I asked.
Vane smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.“Rick has been very… proactive.He’s been sending us tapes since October.Every shutout.Every save percentage update.He’s been very clear that you are one hundred percent committed to the path.No distractions.”
I felt sick.The breakfast burrito I’d eaten churned.
