My pulse jumps. A recalibration.
Reckless isn’t his style. Blind isn’t either. The man just isn’t gentle.
“But I also care about what it does while we figure it out,” he continues. “Because right now it’s the first thing scouts see when they Google your name. Silence won’t cut it this time, Rossi.”
Coach’s eyes flick once—permission and warning at the same time—then back to me.
“You’re skating on thin ice. And you’re dragging attention with you.”
He’s not talking about my feelings. He’s talking about the rink, the roster, the donors, the recruiters—the machine that eats boys and spits out headlines.
Jurisdiction.
That’s what this is.
He’s reminding me who owns the ice when my name becomes a liability.
“I’m not letting it touch the ice,” I say.
“You don’t get to decide that alone anymore,” he replies. “Honesty. With me. Or I handle it like I handle any liability.”
“Coach—”
He cuts me off. “You want me in your corner? Stop lying by omission.”
Then he turns and leaves.
The door shuts.
The quiet that follows is expensive.
For a second, I just stand there with my hands at my sides like I’m waiting for permission to move.
I hate that.
I hate it more than the post.
Dante runs a hand over his mouth like he’s holding himself back from saying something dumber. He doesn’t.
Good.
Cole looks at my locker, then back at me. He doesn’t offer comfort. He offers a fact. “He’s pissed because he gives a shit.”
Declan’s arms cross tighter. “That account’s already getting traction.”
I nod once. That’s all they get.
Adrian’s presence shifts—half a step, and suddenly he’s in my peripheral again, a reminder that he saw all of it and didn’t flinch. He doesn’t ask. He waits.
“And you’re not responding,” he says.
“No.”
Dante’s voice is dry. “So what are you doing?”
I don’t answer right away. Because something already changed and I can feel it in my skin.
When Coach walked in, the room went quiet. When the post hit, the campus got loud.
