Page 8 of Phantom Faceoff
Whoops. Looks like I’m the only one not dressed yet.
I’m a winger, and though I didn’t get much ice my freshmen year and only saw game time a handful of times last year, I give practice my all each and every time.
At first, it was a desperate need to prove myself, to be seen by the team. By coach. But that desperation has faded.
Now, it’s one hundred percent the adrenaline.
It’s fuckingfunsquaring off with these guys. Even more-so when I get to play the other teams. Micky keeps me on my toes, forces me to stay engaged, and while everyone else is groaning through their buckets of sweat, I’m already stripped down and plotting out how to spend my afternoon.
I don’t have class until eleven, so I’ve got two hours to kill.
“Hey.”
Micky’s hard tone cuts through my bubble of excitement.
I cock my head, and his stone-eyed stare softens. “Coach wants to have a chat with you before you leave.”
With a roll of my shoulders, I give my roommate a thumbs up, which earns me an eye roll.
My track pants are comfy and my hoodie is cozy, and I’m all set to go out and dosomethingwhen I step foot in coach’s office and feel every individual drop of blood in my body dip toward freezing.
Coach Archer has an air about him. Something stern and dangerous, but not the kind of danger that I like to straddle. The man is akin to an entire den of vipers.
Usually that energy is tightly caged off the ice, but right now I’m sensing some neon flashing warning signs.
What the heck could I have done? Haven’t missed practice. Haven’t been late. Okay, I’ve been a little space-casey thanks to my texts with Julian and Blanchard, but still. I’m present and working my ass off.
“Wanted to see me, coach?”
If looks could kill, I would be six feet deep in a heartbeat.
“Why is this the first I’m hearing about an academic probation?”
The quick slash of words makes me wince.
Probably because I got the letter in the summer and stashed it as far back in my dresser drawer as possible in hopes of forgetting it exists.
And I kind of did.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I say, holding my hands up in as placating of a manner as I can. Friendly, easy smile. “My GPA just dipped a little close to the cutoff line.”
Coach’s nostrils flare, and I don’t think I’m making this any better for myself.
“I’ve got it under control.”
He raises his brow. Wrong answer apparently. “Do you?”
Hockey is all I’m really here for. Not because I see a future in the majors, but because it’s one of the few things in life that brings me joy. That excites me.
My first year, I was able to float by on required courses. Second year, I was really big on my undeclared major status and ‘playing the field’.
This year, my counselor said my scholarship would be on the line if I didn’t pick a degree.
A pretty simple Creative Arts degree sounded easy enough. I had a couple miscellaneous courses under my belt already.
Turns out the Music Theory class I’d taken and flunked last semester did bad things for both my GPAandmy degree plans.
“Two things I don’t tolerate on this team are lying and secrets,” Coach says. “Your teammates and I need to be able to trust you when I send you out to the ice.”
