Page 80 of Faking It For Real

"Is this about Mia?"

My head snapped up. "What? No. Mia—I mean, it's not—" I stammered.

Coach raised an eyebrow. "Look, I don't care about your love life. But those scouts? They care about your focus. Your discipline. Your ability to lead under pressure." He tapped his temple. "Mental toughness is what separates good college players from NHL draft picks."

"I know," I said quietly.

"Then show me. Get your head straight before the semifinals. Whatever's distracting you—deal with it or shelve it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

As Coach walked away, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Though this pressure had followed me since childhood, it felt heavier now—like concrete hardening around my skates.

I headed to the locker room, trying to ignore the churning in my stomach. As I pushed through the doors, my phone rang. Dad. Perfect timing, as always.

I considered letting it go to voicemail, but that would only mean a more unpleasant conversation later. I pressed accept.

"Hi, Dad."

"Ethan. Just spoke with Coach. So the scouts are confirmed for the semifinals and finals."

"Yeah, I just heard."

“This is the moment, son—the culmination of everything we’ve sacrificed for. You need to bring your absolute best.”

"I know, Dad. I'm focused."

"Are you? Because Coach mentioned you seemed distracted while practicing."

I clenched my jaw. "I'm handling it."

"You need to be better than 'handling it.' Did you see Nico’s performance against State last weekend? Three goals, two assists, and that series of dekes in the third period? That kid's making waves, taking the kind of dynamic chances that get scouts excited. Why aren't you pushing the envelope like that?"

My free hand curled into a fist. Nico was a forward for our biggest rival, eternally linked to me in every scouting conversation.

"I'm playing my game, Dad. Coach says—"

"Your 'game' needs to stand out, Ethan. You're playing it too safe. These scouts are looking for the complete package—skill, leadership, and that X-factor. This is your last shot to prove you have it all. Don't waste years of work playing cautiously."

The familiar tightness crept into my chest. I counted silently backward from ten, a technique my high school counselor had taught me after I'd punched a locker door and broken two knuckles following a particularly brutal loss.

"I won't," I said, my voice strained.

"Good. I've booked my flight for the Finals. I'll be watching."

Of course he would.

"Great," I managed. "Looking forward to it."

After we hung up, I sat alone in the locker room, everyone else long gone. The familiar anxiety tightened around my chest like a vise. First round draft pick. NHL contract. My father's dreams. My future.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: Mia.

Mia, who saw me as more than just a hockey player. Mia, whose laugh made me forget about scouts and expectations. Mia, who was becoming a complication I couldn't afford right now.

I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually the lights dimmed—the automatic timers kicking in. I stared at my phone, debating whether to text her. We hadn't really talked about what happened during the ski trip.

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe I needed to focus solely on hockey right now. Maybe—

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