Practice ends on a high note, fast, clean, sharp. Exactly what we need heading into playoffs. I’m grabbing my water bottle when Coach Hartman’s voice booms across the rink. “Hart! Office. Now.” Not a request. Not even close.
The guys all wince like I’m walking into a firing squad. Mason mutters, “Good luck, dude,” under his breath.
I follow Coach down the hall, still sweaty, still breathing hard, still clueless about what I supposedly did.
The second I step into his office, I know something’s off. He’s standing behind his desk, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes locked on me like I personally set the rink on fire. “Sit,” he snaps. I sit. He doesn’t. “What the hell is going on with you and that girl?”
I blink. “What girl?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he barks. “Lena. Merritt. Whatever her
