After our quick break, Coach runs us through one final set—full-speed controlled entries, quick strikes, and high-tempo chaos. The kind of drill that separates guys whothinkthey’re ready for the next level from guys who actually are.
“Make it count!” Coach yells.
We go again. Catch. Drive. Dish. Shoot.
Practice ends with a bag skate because Coach Graves apparently believes happiness is a distraction and suffering builds character. We’re probably going to be a problem for other teams this year—and it’s definitely because he’s torturing us into shape.
The locker room explodes into noise the second we stagger through the doors—guys talking over each other, tape ripping, showers turning on, the chaos of twenty college hockey players who just got their asses kicked and are pretending they’re fine.
Our program is newer to PCU, which means our facilities are shiny and updated, yet we still somehow feel like we’re living in the shadow of football.
They’ve got a new transfer, and they’re having the best year in school history.
This season, though? That changes. It has to.
I drop onto the bench between Weston and Asher, and every muscle in my body starts staging a revolt.
“I’m retiring,” Weston announces, tipping his head back against his locker. “Effective immediately.”
Kai sits down across from us, already unlacing his skates with the calm efficiency of someone who didn’t just crawl through hell. Captains don’t get to act like they’re dying, even when they are.
“We’re still in college,” Kai says. “You’ll be here again tomorrow.”
“Cruel,” Weston wheezes dramatically. “You’re just cruel, Mercer.”
Asher is already peeling off his gear, somehow still looking like a functional human being. It’s annoying.
“If you’re done being dramatic,” Asher says, “we have class in forty minutes.”
Weston points at me without opening his eyes. “Bennett’s not going. Or if he does, he won’t be paying attention.”
I blink. “I’m absolutely going to class.”
Weston’s eyes snap open, grin going feral. “No. You’re not.”
Asher raises an eyebrow, looking between us. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Weston leans forward like he’s about to drop breaking news. “Because he’s got a little secret pen pal.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not a pen pal.”
Kai’s mouth twitches. The traitor. “It’s definitely a pen pal.”
“It’s a forum,” I say tightly. “PCU insomnia thread. It’s—” I search for the least embarrassing word. “A resource. And I mostly use it at night when you assholes are all sleeping peacefully and don’t reply to my texts.”
“A resource,” Weston repeats slowly, savoring it. “Is that what we’re calling your mysterious internet girlfriend?”
“She’s not my—” I stop, running a hand down my face. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had this same conversation. “I don’t even know her name.”
Weston looks personally delighted by that. “I know. It makes you look even more pitiful.”
“Asher,” I say flatly, “please tell him to stop.”
Asher considers it like he’s mediating a hostage situation, and then his eyes flick back to me. I already hate what I know is coming from the slight grin hiding on his face.
“I gotta go with Weston on this one, Bennett,” Asher says. “I’ve never really done the whole secret admirer thing.”
Weston howls with laughter. I flip them both off and yank off my shirt, trying to ignore the way my phone buzzes inside my bag. Two notifications. And since almost everyone I talk to is in this room, I can pretty much guarantee both of them are from her. My thumb itches to reach for it.
