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"The hell was that?"

"My bad."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Coach Brennan's whistle cuts through before Camden can get up a real head of steam about it. He skates over slow, the way he does when he's not spending energy on anger yet, just cataloguing.

"Larkin."

"Coach."

"Head's somewhere else today?"

I want to say something clever. I don't have anything. "Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."

He looks at me a beat too long with the same look from the tunnel weeks back. I keep my face doing nothing, the way I've gotten good at doing nothing with my face.

A second later, Coach blows his whistle and sends us into the next drill. He doesn't say anything else, but I know he's watching me.

I catch Kai looking my way from the far blue line. He doesn't say anything, either, which somehow makes it worse. I have a pretty good idea what he's thinking, and I'm not looking forward to that conversation.

Camden's story from earlier keeps coming back to me. Something about a trainer who pissed off the wrong person and ended up with a one-way ticket to some minor-league town nobody's ever heard of. Dmitri's dry comment afterward hadn't helped.

He's thinking about it very hard.

I make damn sure I don't give Coach anything else to complain about for the rest of practice. I stay focused, make the right plays, and push myself harder than usual. If things are about to get complicated with Brennan, the last thing I need is to give him a reason to question my performance, too.

By the time practice ends, I'm exhausted, but I still haven't figured out what the hell I'm going to do.

I take my time getting changed while the other guys head out in twos and threes. Jordan gives me one last look on his way out, and I know he's going to ask questions sooner or later. Thankfully, he leaves me alone for now.

Once the locker room is empty, I sit on the bench and pull out my phone.

I could go home, leave it alone for another day, and pretend I haven't spent the entire practice thinking about her.

Instead, I open our messages.

Me:

I think I should come clean. Hypothetical guy is me.

Send it before the part of my brain that specializes in talking me out of things gets a vote.

The rink is mostly cleared out, just the hum of the ice plant somewhere behind the walls and my own breathing louder than it should be for a guy standing still. I sling the bag over my shoulder and head for the exit, phone still in my hand like it might do something if I stare at it hard enough.

It buzzes before I hit the door.

Quinn:

I know...

Three dots. I stop walking. Actually stop, gear bag swinging into my hip, standing in the middle of the tunnel like an idiot who forgot how legs work.

Quinn:

That's the scary part.

I read it once. Then again. Six times, easy, standing under the buzzing fluorescent light by the equipment room, and I'm grinning at my phone in an empty hallway like it's got jokes on it instead of four words that just rearranged something in my chest.