“After your fight at the tournament,” Morris said, his tone flat. “The administration wants to make sure your head is in the game. They’re monitoring you.”
I gripped the cheap plastic armrests of my chair. Morris made it sound like standard procedure. It wasn’t.
Of course they were looking for a reason. One major penalty and the administration was already trying to find an excuse to cut me loose. A suspension would kill the AHC contract Gavin Phillips offered in the tunnel, the one real shot I had to pull my mother out of double shifts.
“Bullshit,” I said. “They want a reason to pull my money.”
“Aleksey, don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Like they did with Pearson?” I pushed, my voice getting louder. “Two years ago. They dug into his private life until they found something they didn’t like, and they cut him.”
The school called it a conduct violation on paper. But the whole locker room knew what really happened. Pearson actually got his scholarship pulled because some legacy alumni forced him out for sleeping with a guy.
Morris looked over his glasses, shifting in his seat. “Pearson violated the student code of conduct. That’s public record. This is simply a warning to stay focused.”
Coach Corby didn’t know about Karter. There was no way. But my stomach still hit the floor. The back of my neck went cold.
Off-ice distractions.They were digging. And if they found out someone like me was ‘corrupting’ a legacy freshman? I was done. They’d practically pack my bags for me.
I pictured my mother working extra shifts at the nursing home just to keep me in skates. My home city was right there, waiting to swallow me back up. Getting sloppy over Karter was a mistake that would cost me everything.
“Go to class,” Morris told me. “Play hockey. And don’t give them a reason to look closer.”
“Sure,” I muttered. I grabbed my duffel bag and stood up.
I had to back off and cut ties with Karter before everything I had worked for got ripped away. The scholarship, the contract, the chance to pull my mother out of double shifts: it all hinged on keeping my head down.
Practice was a blur of checks and sprints. I threw my weight into every hit, kept my eyes off Karter’s number, and skated until my lungs burned. Perez studied me from the far boards, his gum clicking, cataloging evidence I was too exhausted to hide.
Later that afternoon, I focused on the sharp ripping sound of my athletic tape as I sat in the locker room. I jammed my shoulder pads into my open duffel bag, pushing down hard to make room before tearing off another strip of tape to wrap a loose strap.
Slamming the metal door shut of my locker with enough force to make it rattle, I ignored the loud laughter from a couple of guys across the room.
I locked my jaw and tried to square my shoulders to take up more space on the bench, aiming for the cold smirk that usually kept everyone out of my way. But I couldn’t find the energy to keep the act going.
Across the locker room, Karter was standing near the showers and talking to Elliot, and I caught myself staring at him for way too long.
Angel Perez stepped into my line of sight and leaned against my locker to block my view. He tossed a roll of white tape up and caught it, the smack of it hitting his palm cutting through the noise.
“You’re staring at him again,” he muttered.
I gripped the thick canvas of my duffel bag and dropped my eyes to my gear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.” Perez didn’t look at me, just knelt down to work on untying his skates. “You’ve been doing it all week. Like you’re tracking a puck with your whole head.”
“Maybe I’m studying his skating form.”
A short laugh barked out of him. “Yeah, his skating form. That’s what you’re studying.” He yanked a lace loose. “Bro, you skated across two lines at the tournament to take out a guy who breathed on him wrong. I’ve seen you play for two years. You don’t do that for just anyone.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Sure,” Perez shook his head. “Shit, man... I don’t care what you do outside the rink. But you’ve gotta be smart.”
“Angel—”
“Wait, let me finish.” He pulled his other lace loose, slower this time, like he was choosing his words. “If Elliot or Trenton catches you staring at him like that? It’s over, bro. For all of us.”
“Nothing’s over.”
