“Oh.” The word was clipped.
A dull flush crept up his neck. He shifted away from me, crossing his arms tight over his chest like a shield, his eyes glued to the far wall.
“Random hookups?” he asked.
“Yeah. Cheap, fast, and no damn talking.”
I wanted to push him away. That was the instinct. Give him the ugly truth so he’d get up and walk. But watching him pout over my history of cheap hookups caught me off guard.
A genuine laugh scraped out of my throat. He looked ridiculous and weirdly cute.
I rolled onto my side, and my arm brushed his. “Hey.”
He ignored me.
“Hey. Look at me.”
He finally turned his head. His mouth was pulled tight, annoyed.
“I work the night shift stocking boxes,” I told him, keeping my voice level. “I’m on the ice six days a week. When I have a fewhours, I sleep. I don’t have the time or the cash for anyone else right now. Just you.”
The tension bled out of him. A slow breath escaped his chest, and he dropped his arms back to the mat.
I stayed right there on the floor for a few more minutes. Karter shifted closer, his shoulder brushing mine. I closed my eyes and let my muscles ache, fully aware that the quiet wouldn’t survive the daylight. But we couldn’t stay any longer.
So, I forced myself to sit up and fix my clothes, telling him it was time to head back to the Ice House.
Four days passed before reality caught up with me.
Trading study notes with Karter became easy, too easy. He’d knock on my door with his color-coded flashcards, and we’d sit on the floor with textbooks spread between us. I told myself that was all it was—just keeping my GPA alive. The lie inside my head had stretched, thin and false, until I almost believed it could stay that way.
Now, as I sat squinting into the sunlight knifing its way through the cheap blinds of my academic advisor’s cramped office, I should have known better.
Mr. Morris slid a single piece of paper across his desk.
“Two-point-six,” Morris said. “You pulled it off, Aleksey. You’re officially off academic probation. Barely.”
A breath left my lungs. Karter’s color-coded notes had worked. “So I’m cleared to play this weekend?”
“You’re academically cleared for the ice. Yes.” Morris picked up a pen and tapped the plastic against the wood.
Tap. Tap.
Growing up in Detroit taught me one thing: nothing comes for free.
I stared at him. “But?”
Morris stopped tapping. “Why do you assume there’s a ‘but’?”
“Because there always is. What’s the catch?”
He turned to his computer monitor and clicked his mouse a few times. His brow furrowed. “The Athletic Compliance Office flagged your file this morning.”
Every muscle in my back locked. “For grades? You just said I passed.”
“Not for grades.” Morris turned his screen slightly. “Coach Corby submitted a behavioral note. He requested a full report on your focus and any off-ice distractions.”
“Off-ice distractions?”
