Page 2 of Faking It For Real

"Yeah."

"Same old pep talk?"

"The Wright special," I confirmed, draining my protein shake.

Dylan clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, screw him. You're the best player this university has seen in a decade, and everyone knows it. Even Coach Hardass Alvarez admits it, and he'd rather eat his own whistle than hand out compliments."

I appreciated Dylan's support, but the weight of my father's expectations had been part of my gear for so long, I wasn't sure I'd know how to skate without it.

The university's hockey rink was my second home, the sharp scent of ice and the hollow sound of pucks hitting boards as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. As I entered, several teammates were already warming up, including our goalie Tyler, who was doing his usual bizarre pre-practice stretching routine that looked like a cross between yoga and an exorcism.

"Wright!" Coach Alvarez's voice echoed across the ice. "My office, now."

I exchanged glances with Dylan, who shrugged. I followed Coach to his small office, littered with play diagrams, team photos, and a disturbing collection of empty energy drink cans.

"Close the door," Coach said, settling behind his desk. He fixed me with that intense stare that had terrified generations of university hockey players. "I've got news."

My heart rate kicked up. "Good or bad, Coach?"

"Depends on how you handle it." He leaned forward. "Pittsburgh's sending their top scout to observe practice today."

A jolt of electricity shot through me. Pittsburgh. One of the top teams in the NHL.

"This is just preliminary," Coach continued. "But word is they're very interested in you for their draft. Very interested."

I tried to keep my expression neutral, professional. Inside, my mind was racing. Pittsburgh. The fucking Seals.

"There's more," Coach said, his expression sobering. "They're not just looking at your play, Ethan. They're assessing your character. Your stability."

And there it was. The unspoken issue that had been hovering over my season.

"Coach, that incident during sophomore year was—"

"I'm not talking about the fight, though that didn't help." Coach sighed. "Look, you know I'm your biggest advocate. But there have been concerns about your... intensity. The way you lost it with Marco during the scrimmage last month. And then there's the whole situation with Vanessa."

I flinched at the mention of my ex-girlfriend's name. Our breakup four months ago had been messy, public, and poorly timed—right before a crucial game that we'd subsequently lost.

"That's over," I said firmly.

"Is it? Because rumor is she's thinking of giving things another shot, and the last thing you need right now is emotional drama." Coach leaned back in his chair. "NHL teams invest millions in their draft picks, Ethan. They want players who are solid on and off the ice. Steady. Reliable."

"I am reliable."

"On the ice, you're a machine. Off the ice..." He spread his hands. "Just keep it together, Wright. Eyes on the prize. No distractions, no explosions."

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now get out there and show that scout why you deserve to wear a Pittsburgh jersey next season."

Practice was brutal, exactly as expected. Coach ran us through every drill in his sadistic repertoire, with special emphasis on the power play formations that my father had criticized. I pushed everything else away—my father's voice, Coach's warnings, the scout's watchful presence in the stands. There was only the ice, the puck, the perfect line between my stick and the goal.

I landed pass after pass, executed defensive maneuvers with military precision, and put three beautiful goals past Tyler, who swore creatively after each one. By the end of practice, my lungs were burning, but the scout was smiling and making notes, which had to be a good sign.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was lighter, despite everyone's exhaustion. Dylan collapsed dramatically onto a bench.

"I think I'm dying," he announced to the ceiling. "Actually, no—I think I'm already dead. This is hockey purgatory."

"Could be worse," Tyler said, removing his goalie pads. "Remember last year when Coach made us skate for hours because someone put a rubber duck in his office?"

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