The worst part was that being early felt good.
I hated that.
I hated the quiet satisfaction sitting under my skin when I left the players’ lounge after the morning meeting. I hated that I kept replaying Coach Reid’s face when he’d seen me there at 8:04, like I’d done something more impressive than drag my ass into a room before the clock betrayed me.
You’re early.
Two words. Not praise, exactly. Not a parade. But he’d noticed.
That was the problem.
People noticed when I screwed up. They noticed when I was late, when I forgot something, when I talked over someone because my thoughts were already three exits ahead and my mouth had merged without signaling. They noticed the mess.
Declan Reid had noticed the effort.
Which was inconvenient as hell, because now my brain had decided to carry that around like a prize I didn’t ask for.
By the time I got into the locker room, the guys were in their usual states of half dressed, half caffeinated, fully obnoxious. Lowell was taping a stick with the focus of a surgeon. Sokolov was arguing with Milo Brooks about whether cereal counted as soup. Roman sat in his stall, pads half on, reading something on his phone with the disgusted expression he reserved for group texts and government forms.
He looked up when I walked in.
“You’re alive.”
“Disappointing for you.”
“Deeply.” His gaze dropped to my notebook, still in my hand. “You bring school supplies now?”
“Shut up.”
He smiled into his coffee. “New coach has you color-coding feelings?”
I threw my glove at him. He caught it without looking, which was annoying, because goalies already got enough opportunities to feel superior.
“I was early,” I said, then immediately regretted saying it because it sounded like I wanted a cookie.
Roman’s eyebrows rose. “Voluntarily?”
“I set alarms.”
“How many?”
“Not important.”
“More than three?”
“Go stretch your groin or whatever you people do.”
He leaned back. “Either he likes you or he’s building a case file.”
My stomach did a weird little drop at likes you, which pissed me off because it didn’t mean anything. Coaches liked players who listened. Coaches liked production. Coaches liked not having tochase their highest-paid center around like a golden retriever with a tax problem.
“He doesn’t like me,” I said.
“Then case file.”
“Maybe he’s just good at his job.”
Roman studied me for half a second too long. “That sounded almost respectful.”
