“I can handle pressure just fine.”
I’d been handling pressure my whole life. The pressure of being the family’s hope, the kid who was supposed to make it out of our neighborhood and into something better. The pressure of justifying every dollar my parents had spent on equipment, ice time, travel teams. And now the pressure of knowing that I had two more seasons to make it happen, two more to prove I was NHL material.
But that pressure had made me stronger, made me better. It hadn’t made me need a special coach.
My parents had worked themselves to the bone for my hockey when they realized I had talent. Dad had pulled countless double shifts at the plant, and my mom cleaned houses on top of working as a waitress. They’d never complained, never made me feel guilty about it, but I knew what it cost them every time I needed new skates, every time there was a tournament out of state.
The full ride I’d received at Millard was supposed to be proof that their investment had paid off. That their son was good enough to make it on his own. So what were Coach Brennan and Coach O’Brien trying to accomplish by bringing in outside help? All they were doing was fucking with my head.
“We know, bro.” Tank stood up, fully geared except for his helmet. “But hey, this guy might teach you some fancy European moves. You could use some style to go with all that skill.”
I flipped him off, which only made him grin wider. Tank was like that—impossible to stay mad at, even when he was being an idiot.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom.
Mom
¿Cómo va todo, mijo? Your father says to remember to eat enough.
Me
Everything’s good, Ma. Tell Dad I’m eating fine.
She’d be making dinner right now. God, I missed her cooking, especially her empanadas. They were my favorite thing on the whole planet, though I loved all of her dishes. Most were family recipes from myabuela. She could cook—and all from scratch.
The guilt hit me like it always did—not because I wasn’t good enough, but because every day I spent in college was another day they had to wait to see their sacrifices pay off.
But I’d get there. I knew I would. And I sure as fuck didn’t need some fancy coach to make it happen.
“You good?” Tank asked, noticing my expression.
“Yeah, just my mom checking in.”
“Tell her I said hi. And that I’m keeping you out of trouble.”
“You’re the one who got us kicked out of that bar last month.”
“Details.” Tank grabbed his helmet and stick. “Come on, Rivera. Time to meet your new boyfriend.”
I shoved him hard enough to make him stumble. “Shut up, man.”
The corridors were cooler than the locker room, and I could already hear the familiar sounds of the rink: the hum of the ice-making equipment, the echo of voices from the arena. This place was my sanctuary, had been since my first day on campus. Everything else about college was complicated, but hockey made sense. It was my home.
We pushed through the double doors into the arena, and I immediately scanned the stands. Coach Brennan was there, talking to some guy I didn’t recognize. Blond, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that seemed out of place here. Way too formal. Had to be the new coach.
“That him?” Tank asked, following my gaze.
“Yeah, probably.” I studied the guy more closely. He was tall, probably an inch or two taller than my five-ten, but he didn’t look like he’d ever played hockey in his life. He was way too pretty and refined for that with that clean-cut, preppy style… and he was supposed to teach me? Yeah, right.
“He looks fancy,” Tank observed.
“No shit.” I grabbed my helmet and headed toward the ice. “Let’s go.”
The ice felt perfect under my skates, that familiar sensation of controlled power that never got old. A few of the guys were already warming up, taking lazy shots at the empty net. I joined them, letting my body fall into the rhythm of skating, stick handling, shooting.
This was what I was good at. This was what I’d been born to do.
“Rivera!” Coach Brennan’s voice boomed across the rink. “Come over here. Want you to meet your new coach.”
