"We may have a solution." He steepled his fingers, which made him look like a movie villain about to propose something deeply questionable. "The university's hockey team is currently without a performance enhancement specialist."
I stared at him. "You want me to work with the hockey team."
"Yes."
"The team whose players have made my life a living hell since freshman year?"
"I... wasn't aware of any conflicts."
Of course he wasn't. Because deans don't spend time at the rink at 6 AM, watching hockey players deliberately spray ice shavings during figure skating practice. They don't hear the "twirly girl" comments or the kissing noises every time Sam and I practiced lifts. They don't deal with the casual, everyday mockery that comes from sharing ice time with athletes who think figure skating is what happens when real sports have a midlife crisis.
"The position would allow you to maintain your scholarship and housing," Dean Morrison continued. "You'd work directly with the team on conditioning, agility training, and performance optimization. Your background in exercise science and sports psychology makes you uniquely qualified."
"Uniquely qualified," I repeated. "Is that what we're calling 'desperate and out of options'?"
"Miss Torres—"
"Let me guess. If I say no, I'm on my own. No scholarship, no housing, just a nice 'good luck with your future endeavors' and a pat on the head."
The dean had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "We would, of course, provide recommendations and assist with your transfer to another institution—"
"Stop," I said. "Just... stop. I'll do it."
The words tasted like defeat and freezer burn and every hockey player who'd ever called me "princess" while I was landing jumps they couldn't do in their dreams.
"Excellent," Dean Morrison said, brightening immediately. "I think you'll find the Northbridge Wolves to be a dedicated and professional group of young men."
I highly doubted that, but I kept my mouth shut.
"Now, there is one small complication with the housing situation."
Of course there was. Because why would anything about this day be simple?
"Due to a clerical error that unfortunately cannot be rectified mid-semester, your room in the athletic dormitory has been reassigned."
"Okay," I said slowly. "So where am I living?"
"The hockey house."
I waited for the punchline. When none came, I said, "I'm sorry, did you just say—"
"The athletic housing complex has a designated residence for senior hockey players. It's quite spacious, very professional. You'll have your own private room, of course."
"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," I said, my voice taking on the kind of calm that usually precedes violence. "You want me to not only work with the hockey team—the hockey team that has spent three years making my life miserable—but also live with them?"
"With three of them, specifically. The team captain, Nolan Smith, and two alternate captains, Logan Jones and Blake Morrison. They're very responsible young men."
Blake Morrison. As in, related to the dean? Of course. Why wouldn't nepotism be involved in this disaster?
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'm afraid we cannot maintain your scholarship or provide campus housing."
So not really a choice at all. Just the illusion of choice, which was somehow worse.
I thought about my mom's face when I told her I'd made the national team. I thought about my dad showing everyone at all three of his jobs the video of my performance. I thought about giving up, about calling them and admitting defeat, about wasting everything they'd sacrificed.
"Fine," I said. "I'll do it."
