Page 29 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

I take a sip of coffee, burning my tongue. "Nothing's going on."

"Dakota." Asher uses my full name, a sure sign he's being serious. "I've seen you take hits that would put most guys in the hospital, and you've never looked as wrecked as you do today."

The coffee tastes bitter in my mouth. I set the cup down and sigh. "I think Harmony's pulling away."

"What makes you think that?"

"She's been distant. Canceling plans. One-word texts. The classic 'I'm too busy' routine." I trace the rim of my cup with my finger. "I've seen it before. I'm usually the one doing it."

Asher nods slowly. "Have you talked to her about it?"

"And say what? 'Hey, are you ghosting me? Because it feels like you're ghosting me, and I don't like how it feels'? Pass."

"Actually, yeah. That's exactly what you could say." Asher takes a sip of his own drink—some fancy latte thing that Elle's got him hooked on. "Look, before Elle, I was just as bad as you at the relationship thing. Maybe worse."

"This isn't a relationship," I say automatically.

Asher gives me a look. "Isn't it, though? You're checking your phone constantly. You're distracted at practice. You nearly took Ryker's head off with that wild pass today. That's not Dakota 'Lucky' Miles behavior. That's relationship behavior."

His words hit like a punch to the gut. "I just don't get it," I admit quietly. "Things were good. Really good. And now suddenly she's acting like I'm an obligation, not a priority."

"Did you ever consider that maybe her job actually is crazy demanding? She predicts the weather, man. That shit affects people's lives."

I hadn't really thought about it that way. In my mind, meteorology was just pointing at maps and saying it might rain tomorrow.

"How do you and Elle make it work?" I ask, surprising myself with the question. "With hockey and her... whatever it is she does."

"Nursing school," Asher supplies with a smile. "It's not easy. We miss each other sometimes. We have to be intentional about making time. We talk about it. We don't just assume the other person knows what we're thinking."

"Talking. Great." I drain the last of my coffee. "Not exactly my strong suit."

"No shit," Asher laughs. "Here's the thing about relationships—they're like hockey. You don't get better by avoiding the hard parts. You get better by practicing them."

The metaphor is so cheesy I have to roll my eyes, but I get his point. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking." Asher checks his watch. "We get going and go take our pregame nap. Game time's coming up fast."

Later, back at the arena, I try to focus as we suit up. Coach gives us the same speech he always does before big games—about heart and hustle and showing those Chicago bastards who owns the ice. I go through my usual pre-game routine, taping my stick just so, adjusting my pads, but my mind keeps drifting to Harmony.

Would she be watching tonight? She said she might catch the game on TV if work allowed.

As we take the ice for warm-ups, the crowd roars. I force myself to be present, to feel the cool air on my face, to sync my breathing with my movements.

The first period starts strong. I'm on my game, making clean passes and creating opportunities. We're up 1-0 on a beautiful goal from Ryder off my assist.

Then my phone buzzes in my gear bag during the first intermission. I shouldn't check it. I know I shouldn't. Yet I do anyway, hoping to see Harmony's name.

Instead, it's a notification from Instagram. Someone tagged me in a photo. Some random chick from a bar I don't even remember visiting. I close the app, disappointed and annoyed at myself for caring so much.

"Phones away, Miles," Coach barks. "Focus on the game."

I nod, shoving the phone deep into my bag, but the damage is done. My focus is fractured.

The second period is a different story. I'm sloppy and distracted. I miss a critical defensive assignment that leads to Chicago tying the game. Coach benches me for six minutes—an eternity in hockey time—before sending me back out with a look that makes me straighten my spine.

By the third period, we're down 2-1, and I'm playing like I've forgotten what sport I'm participating in. The frustration builds inside me.

With five minutes left in the game, I get the puck on a breakaway. It's just me and the Blades’ goalie. I can feel thearena holding its breath. This is my moment to redeem myself and tie the game.

---