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“His daughter, I think. I heard this is her first semester on campus,” Jake Brennan replies.
“Damn, that’s Coach’s daughter? She’s hot.”
“I have a class with her,” Brennan boasts. “I’ll tap that before the end of the season.”
My hands are shoved into my pockets, so no one can see my fingers curl into fists.
“You’re blocking the door,” I bark.
Conor gives me a weird look. Hunter sighs behind me.
“Sorry, Phillips,” Andy says, quickly climbing up the steps.
Brennan looks me over instead of moving. “Dude, did you forget to get laid last night or something? Because you’re wound up—”
“Phillips!”
I glance over one shoulder.
Coach Keller is standing with Coach Zimmerman by the pile of our hockey bags. And Rylan is still right next to her father, studiously avoiding eye contact with me.
“Yeah, Coach?” I call out.
“Come here.”
Fuck.
I avoid Hunter’s concerned look and Conor’s confused one as I split from my spot in line and walk over to where Coach is standing.
Rylan noticeably tenses as I approach, but Coach is focused on me.
He takes a few steps forward to meet me, his furrowed forehead comically similar to how Conor’s looked earlier. I call Conor Coach Jr. during our off-season dryland practices, which CoachKeller rarely attends. They’re usually us fucking around while Hart reminds us how many days until the season starts.
“What’s up, Coach?” I ask.
“You were off at practice yesterday,” he tells me. “Everything okay?”
Your daughter is messing with my head.
I shut that train of thought down—hard. I’m distracted enough I’m worried I’ll accidentally say something I shouldn’t, during which is undoubtedly the worst possible time.
And my mistakes at practice weren’t just about what happened with Rylan on Tuesday.
“I’m good, Coach. Just a little nervous.”
Both of Coach’s bushy eyebrows fly upward at the admission. “You know what I’ve thought, Phillips? Since you joined the team as a freshman?”
I shake my head.
“That I’d never met a player with more untapped potential. You’re worried the way you’ve played these past few games has been an anomaly? They’reaveragegames for you, Phillips. There’s not a damn thing limiting you out on the ice, except yourself. Today could be the last game you ever play. Leave it all out there and take the shot.”
I know I’ve avoided expectations. Responsibilities. I’m reliable about showing up, and that’s about it.
“What if I miss?”
“Then at least you took the shot. Not a thing wrong with trying and failing, Phillips.”
Lincoln Phillips would strongly disagree with that statement.
