GREYSON
Istep into my hockey coach’s office with Knox at my back. Coach Roake has a newspaper folded on the edge of his desk. My face is creased on the page, my eyes dark on the thin paper. Coach is reclined with his arms folded behind his head. His face is perfectly stoic.
“Sit,” he orders.
Knox, as captain, took it upon himself to come with me. But he must see something in our coach’s face that I miss, because he hesitates at the door.
I take the chair and twist around, my eyebrow lifting at Knox. I jerk my chin, and he steps back, shutting the door on the way out. When I face forward again, Coach hasn’t moved.
“I spoke to your old coach,” he says.
My chest tightens, but I try not to let my expression change. So far, we’ve gotten along. I’m not one to ruffle feathers if the person
