It was a dump-in from center ice.A floater.A nothing shot meant to get the puck deep.
I went out to play it, putting my stick down to stop the rim.
I missed.
The puck hopped over my blade, hit the boards at a weird angle, and ricocheted back toward the empty net.
I scrambled back, diving, desperate.
It crossed the line a split second before my glove covered it.
The rink went silent.
“Carter!Wake up!”
Coach Harper’s voice cracked like a whip.
I was on my knees in the blue paint, staring at the puck inside the net.
“Sorry,” I muttered, fishing it out.
“That’s four,” Harper said, skating over.She stopped at the top of the crease, looming over me.“Four soft goals in twenty minutes.You’re playing like you’ve never seen rubber before.”
“Bad bounce,” I lied.
“Bad head,” she corrected.She leaned down, voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.“I don’t care what happened with the scouts.I don’t care what happened with your boyfriend.You step into this crease, you lock it down.Or you sit.”
Boyfriend.I almost laughed.Of course, she knew.
“I’m here,” I said, gripping my stick until my gloves creaked.
“Physically, maybe.Mentally, you’re in the parking lot.”She pointed to the gate.“Get off the ice.”
The rink went silent.Ryan froze in the faceoff circle.Javier stopped chewing his mouthguard.
“Coach?”I asked, stunned.
“You’re a liability today, Carter.Go shower.Go sleep.Don’t come back until you remember who you are.”
She blew the whistle.“Decker!Net!”
Humiliation burned hot under my mask, paralyzing me for a heartbeat.Then I turned.Skating off, I kept my eyes locked on the ice—ignoring Ryan, ignoring the team.
The gate gave way under a frustrated kick.The tunnel swallowed me whole, the sound of Decker’s pads hitting the ice echoing behind me like an accusation.
I didn’t go to the showers.I didn’t go to the dorm.
My feet carried me straight to Ridgeway Hall.
His schedule was burned into my memory: Tuesday, four p.m., Calculus tutoring.
Leaning against the lockers with my hoodie pulled up, I waited.Seeing him was the only priority.I needed to verify the variable still existed.
At 2:50, the door opened.Students filed out, complaining about proofs.
Austen came out last.
He looked tired.He was wearing his own coat, the collar turned up.He wasn’t carrying his usual coffee.He looked smaller, somehow.Less distinct.
