Archie stares back at Coach Mercer.
Not with defiance. Not with hostility or discomfort or any of the reactive expressions that most students produce when confronted by a direct question from an authority figure. He stares with the flat, unreadable neutrality of a man who heard the question, processed it, and elected not to participate in the exchange. His green eyes behind the wire-rimmed frames are steady and opaque, offering Coach Mercer exactly as much information as a brick wall offers a window shopper.
The silence stretches.
One second. Two. Three. Four. The duration expanding past conversational awkwardness and into the territory of deliberate noncooperation, the specific flavor of quiet that communicatesI received your inquiry and have filed it in the folder marked Never.
I groan.
The sound exits my chest with the frustrated resonance of a woman who has been dealing with this man's selective mutism for weeks and has reached the precise threshold where patience converts into physical intervention.
My hand connects with his thigh.
Not gently. A flat-palmed slap delivered to the quadricep with enough force to produce a sound that echoes off the office's concrete walls and makes Archie flinch sideways in his chair, his composure cracking for the first time since we sat down.
He turns to me, green eyes widened by a fraction, the mask displaced just enough to reveal the surprise beneath.
"What was that for?"
"He asked you a question!" I jab my thumb toward Coach Mercer, whose expression has shifted from assessment to amusement with the subtle recalibration of a man who is enjoying this dynamic more than professional decorum should permit. "I know you aren't deaf."
Archie shrugs. The gesture is minimal, an economical lift of one shoulder that communicates dismissal through the smallest possible expenditure of physical effort.
"I have selective hearing."
I groan louder this time, the sound climbing in both volume and exasperation, filling the small office with the acoustic signature of a woman whose patience has been ground to powder by a man who weaponizes silence the way other Alphas weaponize their fists.
"I'm not even surprised with you." I turn to Coach Mercer, gesturing at Archie with the resigned presentation of a handler introducing a difficult animal to a new veterinarian. "He's like this, Coach. Full time. Twenty-four seven. Three sixty-five. You ask him a question and he decides whether it deserves a response based on criteria that he has never shared with another living person."
Coach Mercer smirks. The expression sits on his weathered face with the comfortable familiarity of a man who has seen this behavior before, in a different body, wearing a different set of wire-rimmed glasses.
"He's no different from his Dad."
Archie frowns. The comparison landing on his features with the visible impact of a comment he did not expect and does not appreciate. His green eyes sharpen behind the lenses, his jaw tightening by a fraction, the resemblance to his father registering as an accusation rather than a compliment.
He looks back at Coach Mercer with the focused directness that I have learned precedes statements he considers final.
"If you want me to join the team, it's a pass."
I gawk at him.
Full, open-mouthed, eyebrows-at-hairline, chair-creaking gawk that rotates my entire upper body toward his profile with the indignant disbelief of a woman who just watched a man with generational talent decline a roster spot like he was refusing a second helping of salad at a dinner party.
"Why NOT?" The question erupts with a volume that the office's dimensions are not designed to contain. "You had perfect performance out there! Perfect! Do you understand what I witnessed? Because I'm going to explain it in case your selective hearing edited the footage."
I lean forward, ticking points off my fingers with the prosecutorial energy of a closing argument.
"Your edge transitions were seamless. Your acceleration from standstill to full sprint was under two seconds. Your puck distribution through the neutral zone exploited gaps that the rookies didn't realize they had until the disc was already past them. Your positioning adjusted in real time based on Mae's reads, which means you were processing the same formationdata she was and translating it into physical execution without verbal communication."
I hold up my other hand and continue counting.
"Your defensive awareness kept our backline secure during three separate counterattacks that would have produced scoring chances if you hadn't anticipated the passing lanes and collapsed the space before the play developed. Your shot accuracy, even at reduced power, hit the net on six of seven attempts. And your hockey IQ operates at a level that allowed you to function as a center, a winger, and a defensive anchor within the same drill, switching roles based on what the play required without being instructed to do so."
I drop both hands.
"You're better than most of the junior team. You're probably on par with the senior squad based on their performances this week. So why the hell wouldn't you join?"
He says nothing.
