Marcus claps Jake on the shoulder in thanks, then shoots a warning look around the room that lands on me a second too long.
I school my face into a neutral expression.
If he knows what I've been doing—texting his sister for weeks as someone else, kissing her—he'll kill me slowly with his bare hands.
And I won't blame him.
"Alright, listen up," Coach bellows.
The pre-game ritual begins. Coach talks about strategy, line changes. His motivation mostly involves him yelling about how we're better than Harbor City and we'd better prove it.
But I'm not really listening.
Because my phone is burning a hole in my bag, filled with messages from Ivy that I haven't responded to yet. Texts that make me want to fix everything for her while simultaneously hating myself for lying.
It’s driving me insane.
"Hawthorne!" Coach snaps. "Are you with us?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Then get your head in the game."
I nod, shoving thoughts of Ivy into a mental box I'll open later. Right now, I have a game to win.
When the game starts, Harbor City comes out aggressively.
Their center, some kid who thinks he's tougher than he is, tries to pick a fight with Marcus in the first thirty seconds. The refs separate them before it escalates, but the energy is charged and hostile.
Perfect.
I play angry hockey best.
Seven minutes in, I steal the puck from their defense man, weave through two players, and snap a wrist shot past their goalie.
Top shelf.
Beautiful.
The goal horn blares. My teammates mob me, slamming into the boards in celebration.
But as I skate back to center ice, my eyes find the stands. Research section, third row.
Ivy stands beside Dr. O'Connell, wearing an oversized Raptors hoodie that swallows her petite frame. She's focused on writing something in her notebook. She didn't see my goal.
A ball of disappointment lands in my stomach. Although I'm a professional athlete playing in front of thousands of people, all I want is for one woman to look up and notice me.
I force my attention back to the game.
By the end of the first period, we're up two-one. I've scored both goals, playing with vicious precision. Every time a Harbor City player gets close to Misha's crease, I clear them out, protecting our goalie with single-minded focus.
The second period starts fast.
Harbor City is throwing everything desperately at us now. Misha is stopping shots with inhuman reflexes. He dives and stretches, reading plays before they happen.
Twelve minutes in, chaos erupts in front of the net.
A Harbor City forward drives hard toward the crease. Misha comes out to challenge. Bodies collide, a tangle of limbs and sticks that can't be stopped.
