Coach walks in then, saving him from whatever was about to happen next.
“We’ve got a change down the middle tonight,” McCarthy says, not looking at anyone in particular. “Number twenty-three will not be dressing while we review an internal matter. That’s all I’m saying about it.”
A ripple goes through the room.
“We adjust,” he continues. “We don’t whine. We don’t point fingers. We don’t let off-ice bullshit dictate how we show up on the ice. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach,” the room echoes.
His gaze cuts to me for a fraction of a second. Then he moves on to forecheck structure, neutral zone traps, details that normally absorb me completely.
Today they wash over me in waves I have to fight to stay ahead of. When he’s done, he dismisses us with a curt nod. As we stand, he touches my arm. “O’Connor. A word.”
Everything I thought I had mapped just collapsed.
I hang back while the others filter out. Mason hesitates in the doorway until Coach lifts his chin at him. “Go. He’ll be out in a minute.”
The door swings shut. The room feels way too big with just the two of us.
“I spoke to Compliance,” Coach says without preamble. “They spoke to you. They’ll be reaching out to the girl tomorrow.”
“Wren,” I say. My voice sounds strange in the empty space. “Her name is Wren.”
He nods. “I’ve also spoken to Reed.”
Acid rises in my throat. “And?”
“And he told a very different version of last night.”
“Of course he did.”
Coach’s jaw tightens. “I’m not saying I believe him,” he says. “I’m saying this is going to get messy. There will berumors. There will be people who take sides. Some of them in this room.”
I know. I’ve already heard them.
“For now,” he continues, “you’re in the lineup. You earned that A on your chest. Don’t make me regret keeping it there.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“And Kieran?” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is still the right thing. But it’ll come back to bite you. You understand?”
The back of my neck prickles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if there’s anything else I should know about this situation, you better hope I hear it from you before I hear it from anywhere else.”
There it is again. The crack in the ice. The bet, lurking below the surface like a rock I keep pretending isn’t there.
“Yes, Coach,” I say, because I can’t give him anything else without lighting my own life on fire.
He studies me for a second more, then nods toward the door. “Go warm up.”
I step out toward the tunnel, toward the bright cold of the rink, toward whatever comes next.
30
SILVER TONGUE (WREN)
The library doors swing shut behind me, trading fluorescent hum for cold spring sunlight. The quad smells of wet grass and too-early flowers.
