I turned toward the door and walked out. Behind me, Coach Corby muttered a quick, “I’ve got him, Gerry,” to the athletic director.
Corby’s footsteps rang down the hallway before his voice cracked behind me like a whip. “Zotov. Stop.”
I froze just outside the office. Corby caught up to me. He crossed his thick arms, rocking back on his heels the exact way he did behind the bench when we were blowing a lead on the ice.
“I told you to keep your nose clean,” Corby said, his voice dropping to a gruff warning. “You already had a behavioral notein your file before this photo landed on my desk. Now it looks like you’re ignoring the warning.”
I stiffened. “I heard you.”
“Really?” Corby let out another exhausted sigh. He stopped rocking and uncrossed his arms. “Do you know I spend half my damn week fighting off guys in suits? I have parents who think writing a check for a new facility means they get to dictate my roster. Plus, I have Hastings breathing down my neck trying to protect the college brand.”
He pointed a thick finger directly at my chest.
“But I do not care whose last name is on the jersey,” Corby continued, his tone hardening. “I back the players with actual talent. The guys who put their heads down and earn their ice time. You are one of those players, Zotov. So do not make me look like an idiot for going to bat for you. This is your final year here. Make it damn well count.”
I held his stare, keeping my expression blank.
“If this blows up, Chicago pulls its offer and your future in hockey is gone,” Corby warned. “So I do not care if Johnston drives you crazy. You donotput hands on him. You stay away from him. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
“Now go.”
I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and strode out of the athletic building. The strong wind hit my face, but my nine-thirty lecture did not matter anymore.
I’d said I didn’t care what it cost. However, that was last night, in a warm car, with Karter’s mouth on mine, and no-one watching us.
Now a manila folder held a grainy photo and the end of everything I’d bled for. My mother’s tired face surfaced in the back of my mind, then the scout’s warning about PR nightmares.
I ground my teeth and kept walking. My only focus was finding Karter.
It took twenty minutes to track him down. He sat alone at a back table in the library archives, highlighting a textbook.
I stopped at the edge of his desk, planted my hands flat on the wood, and leaned in close.
“Pack your shit,” I told him, keeping my voice low. “Outside. Now.”
I turned around and walked straight out of the room.
The courtyard was deserted, and the bleak morning light was a reminder that the Michigan winter was nowhere near done with us yet. As I inhaled the crisp air, every instinct in my body screamed to hold on to Karter. But then my mother’s tired face flashed in my mind, followed by the image of that manila folder.
I had too much to lose.
The glass doors pushed open. Karter stepped outside.
He walked toward me with an easy stride, hands in his pockets, not even bothering to check the courtyard to see who else was around. Instead, he just looked straight at me, grinning as if he was still thinking about last night.
“Couldn’t wait until practice to see me?” he asked. His tone was light, carrying an easy confidence he usually hid from the rest of the team.
I didn’t answer.
Karter’s grin flickered. He stopped a few feet away, head tilting. “What’s with the face? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re planning a funeral. Whose funeral are we talking about, exactly?”
“Corby and Hastings just pulled me into the office,” I said. My voice came out even.
Karter’s smile vanished. “Why?”
“Someone slid an anonymous folder under Corby’s door.” I watched his face. “They got a picture of us in the parking lot from a few weeks ago. When I grabbed your...” I slipped a hand out of my pocket and gestured at my neck a moment before slipping my hand back in. I sighed, then shook my head. “It looks like it could be something. At least, theythinkit looks like something.”
