Winning should feel better than this. The buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild, my teammates swarmed me, and for a split second, I felt that old rush, the one I’ve been chasing since before the suspension. But the second I stepped off the ice, reality slammed back into me. I know what I did. I know everyone saw it. And I know the league won’t care why.
In the locker room, the guys are loud, celebrating, spraying water bottles like champagne. Mason bumps my shoulder. “Hell of a game, Hart.”
“Yeah,” I say, but my voice is flat.
Coach isn’t celebrating. He’s standing near the whiteboard with his arms crossed, jaw tight. The second he catches my eye, he jerks his head toward the hallway. Great. I follow him out, the noise fading behind us. He doesn’t speak until we’re alone.
“What was that?
