The second it blows, I explode forward. Alex matches my pace on the wing; Erik trails slightly behind, ready for the drop. My skates cut hard against the ice as I weave around the first cone, pass off to Erik, and turn up ice for the return.
Erik feeds me the puck. I snap it across to Alex. He takes the shot from the circle, sharp and clean, hitting top corner like it’s nothing.
“Again!” Coach barks.
We reset, fast.
Another whistle.
Another rush.
This time I keep the puck longer, carry it through the cones, fake the pass to Alex, then drop it to Erik at the last second. He rips one that pings off the post, groaning in frustration even as Coach yells, “Better!”
We loop again.
And again.
I push myself harder for the rest of practice, determined to prove I can still do my job even if my brain keeps drifting to Laura—her voice, her laugh, the way she looked at me right before she sank down on me in the truck. I’m skating faster, sharper, skating like someone who has way too much energy to burn off and only one acceptable outlet: the ice.
Every pass is cleaner. Every shot hits exactly the corner I aim for. McKibbon yells less at me than he does at anyone else, which is how I know I’m doing something right.
By the time he blows the whistle for the final huddle, my lungs burn in the good way and sweat is rolling down my spine. I’m gassed and satisfied as hell with my performance.
“Hendricks!”
Coach’s voice stops me before I can duck into the tunnel toward the locker room.
I wipe my forehead with my glove and skate over. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure,” I say, trying not to read too much into his tone.
He’s standing near the bench with a clipboard tucked under his arm, and his eyebrows raised like he’s debating whether to scold me or congratulate me. Hard to tell with him since they look the same most of the time.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Should be asking you that.” He crosses his arms, and though his face is stern, there’s something almost amused in his eyes. “You’ve been distracted lately.”
“Not true. I’ve been scoring,” I point out. “Three goals on Monday, and two assists Friday. I’m leading the league in goals.”
“I’m not questioning your output, Hendricks,” he says flatly. “Your numbers are solid. I’m asking about what’s going onoffthe ice.”
Oh, shit.
He knows something is up.
I keep my expression neutral and play dumb. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been signing in and out of the rink at strange hours,” he says. “Almost midnight on Sunday. Eleven thirty the week before that.” He pauses, then adds evenly, “I know you’re with a girl.”
“Coach,” I say, not sure how to finish that.
My stomach drops.
He knows about Laura.
About the fact that I definitely have not been keeping things professional during our training.
