I skate to the bench where Coach is waiting, arms crossed, looking like he's debating whether to bench me or commit murder.
"You want to tell me what's going on?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.
"Just an off morning, Coach."
"An off morning." He stares at me like I just suggested we play hockey with a beach ball. "Lockwood, you took a puck to the face, missed every pass, and nearly concussed yourself on the boards. That's not an off morning. That's a crisis."
He's not wrong.
"I'll get my head together," I say.
"You better. Friday's game is in two days, and the scouts will be watching." He leans in closer. "Whatever's going on—girl trouble, family stuff, existential dread about your future—fix it before you step on that ice Friday night. Because right now? You're playing like you've never seen a puck before."
"Yes, Coach."
"And for the love of God, go see the medic about your face. You're bleeding on my ice."
I make my way to the locker room, my jaw throbbing where the puck connected. The medic—a cheerful woman named Darcy who's seen worse—hands me an ice pack and tells me I'll live.
"Rough practice?" she asks, clearly understating the situation.
"Something like that."
"Girl trouble," she says immediately. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I did something stupid and now I'm paying for it' look. It's very distinct." She grins. "My husband had the same expression the morning after he proposed. Threw up twice before I said yes."
"That's romantic."
"That's terror." She tapes up my split lip with practiced efficiency. "Whatever you did, fix it. Life's too short to skate around like you've got a death wish."
My phone buzzes in my locker. I fish it out, half hoping it's Piper, fully prepared for it to be Coach kicking me off the team.
It's Preston.
Preston: Great news. Scouts loved the Fairbanks game. Called you 'stable, mature, relationship-ready.' The girlfriend angle is working. Keep it up.
The irony hits me like another puck to the face.
The fake relationship is helping my career. The scouts think I'm stable and mature because I'm supposedly in a relationship. Preston is thrilled. Coach is happy. My NHL dreams are actually within reach.
And I just made it real.
I slept with the woman I was supposed to be fake-dating, caught feelings I definitely wasn't supposed to catch, and now I have no idea how to navigate this without destroying everything we've both worked for.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I should text her. Should apologize for leaving, or explain why I left, or just ask if she's okay. Instead, I type out three different messages and delete them all.
We need to talk.Too ominous.
About last night...Too vague.
I'm sorry for being a coward.Too honest.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," Jax says, appearing in the doorway. "And also maybe finally got laid."
I nearly drop my phone. "What?"
