"Okay, fine, he's a cheating asshole. But I can handle my own fights."
"We know you can," Nolan said. "But that doesn't mean you have to."
"This is different from what Sam did," Logan added, like he could read my thoughts. "He tried to control you. We're just... backup. When you want it."
"You're standing beside me, not in front of me," I said slowly.
"Exactly." Blake grinned. "Though I'm happy to stand in front if you want to kick him and need cover."
Despite everything, I laughed. The tour group was staring at us, probably wondering why their guide had acquired three protective hockey players, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
"Come on," I said, starting to walk back toward the group. "Since you're here, you might as well make yourselves useful. Tell them about the athletics program."
"Are we allowed to mention the time Blake got stuck in the Zamboni?" Logan asked.
"That was one time!"
"Or when Nolan accidentally flooded the locker room trying to fix a pipe?"
"It was an emergency plumbing situation."
"Or that time Logan—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm telling them about your karaoke incident."
I led my tour group away, their bickering fading behind me, and realized I was smiling.
Chapter 10: Logan
I'd been staring at my ceiling for an hour when I finally gave up on sleep.
The Championship preliminaries were in two days, and my brain had apparently decided that rest was for people who didn't have the weight of an entire team's season resting on their shoulders. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw pucks slipping past me, heard the disappointed silence of the crowd, felt the crushing weight of failing everyone who'd believed in me.
The medication wasn't working. The breathing exercises weren't working. Nothing was working.
At 1 AM, I found myself standing outside Mira's door, debating whether knocking at this hour made me a considerate friend or an absolute creep. I'd been there for approximately ninety seconds, hand raised, when the door opened.
Mira stood there in oversized team sweatpants that had to be Blake's and a tank top, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looked at me without surprise, like she'd been expecting me.
"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.
"How did you know?"
"Your room is right above mine. You've been pacing for the last hour." She stepped back, gesturing me inside. "Come on. I've been researching something."
Her room was smaller than mine, but she'd made it distinctly hers—posters of famous figure skaters on one wall, a small shelf of books about sports psychology, a yoga mat rolledin the corner. Her laptop was open on the bed, surrounded by notebooks covered in her precise handwriting.
"Researching what?" I asked, hovering awkwardly near the door.
"Goalie psychology." She picked up one of the notebooks, flipping it open. "Did you know that goalies have the highest rates of performance anxiety in hockey? It's because you're the last line of defense. Every mistake is magnified. Every save is expected. The pressure is exponentially higher than any other position."
Something tight in my chest loosened slightly. "You've been studying this?"
"Of course I have. You're part of my team. I want to understand what you're dealing with." She patted the bed. "Sit. I want to try something."
Every rational part of my brain screamed that sitting on Mira's bed at 1 AM was a terrible idea. I sat anyway.
"Lie down," she instructed.
