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I don’t say anything, because he isn’t wrong.

“I came here to be the best player on the ice,” Rafe says. “Not to be one third of whatever the fuck this is.”

Koda pushes the door open behind him with his shoulder, holding two energy drinks and a bag of chips. “I can hear yelling from the stairwell. What’d I miss?”

“Get out,” says Rafe.

“Fuck you. I brought you a drink.”

“Get the fuck out.”

Koda hands me the drink instead, drops onto the end of my bed, and opens the chips. “For the record, I thought it was worth it.”

Rafe stares at him.

“He’s a fucking prick,” Koda explains. “He’s been running his mouth for weeks. Somebody had to hit him.” He puts chips in his mouth. “And Mathers’s been asking for that video since March. I was doing him a favor.”

“You made it worse,” Rafe says.

“I made it better.”

Rafe grabs his jacket back off the bed and walks out, and the door slams hard enough to shake the wall.

Koda takes a sip of his energy drink. “He’s so high and fucking mighty.”

The next morning, I’m on my way to the weight room with my bag over my shoulder when Dannebrog stops me. “Coach wants you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I’ve got lift at seven.”

“You don’t have lift at seven,” Dannebrog says. “Now, Kennebeck.”

Coach doesn’t say anything when I come in. Greeley is already in the chair on the left, same as last time, with no coffee this morning and his lip scabbed over at the corner, sitting up straight with his hands on his knees. Berwyn is standing behind his desk with his knuckles on it. The blinds are open. There’s a whistle, a stopwatch, and a stack of papers on the corner of the desk.

“Sit down,” he says to me.

I sit.

“I have had eight people tell me about Saturday night,” he says. “Eight, before eight o’clock yesterday morning. Two of them were parents.” Neither of us says anything. “A parent called me at seven-forty on a Sunday to ask whether her son is on a team where players fight each other at parties.” He straightens up. “I don’t have a season yet. We don’t touch the ice until October. I haven’t run one drill with you. Not one. And I’m already having that conversation.”

Greeley leans forward. “Coach, if I can—”

“No.”

“It’s on me too,” he says, “Honestly, I—”

“Stop.” The word cracks, and Greeley stops.

Berwyn looks at him for a long, ugly second. “You’ve done that once already, in this office. It’s on me too, Coach. For the team. You remember that?”

Greeley’s face doesn’t move. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been here two years. I know exactly what you are, Declan.” He says it flatly, without heat. “You’re a hell of a player. You’re smart. And you’ve figured out that if you’re the reasonable one in the room, nothing ever lands on you. You did it a week ago, and you’re doing it right now, at seven in the morning, with a split lip.”

Nobody breathes.