Page 12 of Faking It For Real

She glanced at me sideways. "Brilliant observation."

I bit back a retort. This was supposed to be a peace offering, not round two. "I meant, you're replacing Jake."

"Yes. He broke his leg."

"Skateboarding incident. I heard."

She nodded. Another painful silence.

"Look," I finally said, "about what happened at practice—"

"You don't need to apologize," she interrupted. "I shouldn't have been on the ice. It was stupid and dangerous, and I know better now."

Her admission caught me off guard. "Oh. Well. Good."

"But," she continued, her tone sharpening, "you didn't need to be such a jerk about it. I didn't do it on purpose."

And just like that, my temper flared again. "A jerk? I was protecting myself and my team. Do you have any idea what an injury could mean for my career?"

"There you go again with the career drama," she sighed. "Is everything always so life-or-death with you?"

"In hockey? Yes. One wrong move, one bad hit—it can end everything." I didn't know why I was telling her this, but the words tumbled out anyway. "My father's NHL career ended with a single bad check that destroyed his knee. Years of work, gone in seconds."

Something in her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry about your father. But that's not what happened today. You're fine."

"I was lucky," I muttered. "And so were you. Hockey is dangerous, especially if you don't know what you're doing."

"I get it," she said, and surprisingly, her voice lacked the earlier antagonism. "I'll stay off the ice. But maybe next time, try explaining that without assuming I'm an idiot who deliberately tried to sabotage your precious practice."

I almost smiled at her directness. "Fair enough. And maybe next time, try not walking on ice in regular shoes."

"Deal." She extended her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, I shook it. Her hand was smaller than mine but her grip was firm. "Professional boundaries established. You stay in your lane, I'll stay in mine."

"Agreed."

By then, we'd reachedBrewed Sunshine, the popular campus coffee shop that was perpetually crowded with students. Dylan somehow managed to snag a corner table, and soon we were all seated with our drinks—black coffee for me, some complicated iced concoction for Dylan, tea for Tyler, and I didn't catch what Mia and Olivia ordered.

The conversation was stilted at first, but Dylan, as always, filled any awkward silences with his particular brand of charming nonsense. He was in the middle of a story about our freshman year disaster involving the dorm's fire alarm and an ill-advised attempt at making nachos at 2 AM when Olivia interrupted.

"So, I'm working on an article about academic privileges for athletes," she said, pulling out a small notebook. "I'd love to get your perspectives. Do you think professors give athletes special treatment?"

The table went silent. Dylan's expression shifted from relaxed to guarded. "What kind of 'special treatment' are we talking about?"

Olivia shrugged. "Extended deadlines, relaxed attendance policies, grade inflation. The usual suspects."

I exchanged glances with Tyler. This was dangerous territory.

"I think," Dylan said carefully, "that professors recognize that student-athletes balance demanding schedules that include training, travel, and competition on top of full course loads."

"So that's a yes," Olivia concluded, jotting something in her notebook.

Dylan frowned. "No, that's a recognition of reality. Most of us practice twenty hours a week, travel for away games, and still maintain the same academic requirements as every other student."

"With additional help and accommodations," Olivia pointed out.

"With reasonable adjustments to account for university-sanctioned activities," Dylan countered. "The same way a student in the orchestra might get flexibility for a concert, or a student government representative might for a conference."

Dylan, normally so laid-back, was visibly irritated—a rare sight. I understood why: his academic scholarship required him to maintain a 3.8 GPA while playing Division I hockey. He studied more hours than anyone I knew, still hunched over textbooks when I went to bed and already at it again when I woke up.

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