“I’m not missing the showcase.”
“I’ve had my assistant and half the faculty in my ear all week,” Coach went on, his volume rising. “Between your academic warnings and the locker room tension, they’re suggesting I cut you loose before you become a liability to the entire program.”
“The faculty knows nothing about what I bring to the ice,” I shot back, scowling. “They’re just pissed because I fall asleep in their morning lectures.”
“They know a failing grade when they see one,” Coach countered. “And frankly, I’m tiring of the attitude, too. After that near-brawl on the ice earlier this week, I was ready to bench you myself. I don’t need this goddamn headache.”
A scuff mark on the wall held my attention. The threat stung, but Corby would not see my fear. Detroit was a dead end for me.
Going back wasn’t an option.
“But,” Coach sighed again, leaning back in his chair, “I know how hard you work on the ice when you actually focus. So I pulled rank before academic advising could make it official.”
“What does that mean?”
Corby tapped the open folder. “I’m assigning Karter Johnston as your mandatory tutor. The administration agreed to hold off on suspension as long as you show improvement.”
The name struck me wrong. Irony twisted sick in my stomach.
“The Johnston kid?” Making sure I heard him right took a second. “You have to be joking.”
“I don’t joke about eligibility. The kid’s pre-med. Pulls straight A’s. Placed into upper-level biology after testing out of the intro courses, and he’s shown he’s got enough of a spine to put up with your bullshit. He already agreed to the schedule.”
“I don’t want his help. Get me someone else. Get Perez to do it.”
“Perez is barely passing his own classes,” Coach said.
“This is crazy! I don’t need a freshman legacy kid looking down his nose at me.”
“You need a brain,” Coach said. “And you need to stay on the ice. So deal with it, or you’re off the roster for good.”
The folder slid closer to the edge of the desk.
“He’s waiting in the library archives right now. Seven-thirty. Don’t screw this up, Aleksey. I stuck my neck out for you.”
I snatched the folder, my jaw clenching. Needing the Karter’s help felt like a massive insult, but the alternative was losing everything. Without a word of thanks, I turned around, walked out the door, and headed into the freezing evening to meet Karter.
Pushing through the doors into the library’s sub-basement archives, the building’s dry heat hit my skin. The space was utterly deserted. Motion-sensor lights snapped on with a click as I stepped inside, throwing a cheap, bleached glare down the narrow aisles between the tall metal bookshelves.
Karter sat alone at a scratched wooden table in the far back corner. A stack of thick textbooks formed a wall next to him. A yellow highlighter flipped back and forth between his long fingers, and his teeth worried his bottom lip as he read.
My boots thudded straight down the center aisle.
“Coach didn’t give me a choice, Zotov,” Karter said, keeping his eyes glued to his textbook.
Stopping at the edge of the table, I glared down at him. “You expect me to believe you didn’t volunteer for this? The captain’s younger brother stepping up to fix the team problem.”
“You think I want to waste my weeknights teaching remedial logic to you?” Karter turned a page.
My duffel bag hit the tabletop with a loud smack, the thick canvas sliding across the wood right into his stack of books. Planting my hands on the edge of the table, I leaned over to invade his space.
“I hate this setup,” I told him. “You are holding my eligibility in your hands. You think this makes you better than me?”
The highlighter stopped flipping. Karter didn’t flinch, nor did he slide his chair back to put distance between us.
“Think I’m gonna be your legacy charity project?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Something you can brag about to Coach?”
Leaning forward, he matched my posture. Our faces ended up so close that the scent of his crisp aftershave filled my nose, drowning out the smell of old paper.
