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Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off. Drills are hell today, and I’m slower than usual, the hangover dragging medown. Every time I move, the piercing tugs, a constant reminder of last night’s stupidity.

“Pick it up, Caleb!” Coach shouts from the sidelines.

“I’m trying!” I snap back, but he just shakes his head, unimpressed.

Eli, on the other hand, is killing it. Every pass is perfect, every shot on target. The guy’s a goddamn machine.

By the time practice is over, I’m ready to collapse. My head’s pounding, my body’s sore, and my pride’s in the gutter.

As we head back to the locker room, Eli walks past me, his gray eyes flicking my way.

“Nice hustle out there,” he says, his tone casual but cutting.

“Yeah, whatever.” I brush past him, not in the mood for small talk.

Inside, the guys are laughing and joking, but I stay quiet, slumping onto the bench.

I sit there for a while, staring at the floor, the events of the past twenty-four hours replaying in my mind. The tattoo shop. The drinking. The dream. And now this. The realization that I’m slipping, losing my edge.

I need to get my shit together. Fast.

The exam paper stares up at me like it wants to fight. Big, fat red letters: 52%. I slump back in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek. Not only am I failing science class, I am failing this too.

“Well, shit.”

The professor drones on about “exam expectations” like half the class isn’t already dead inside. My head’s throbbing, my balls ache, and I’m barely holding it together. The desk chair isn’t helping. It’s hard as hell and pressing in all the wrong places.

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes of sitting here pretending I don’t care that I bombed another test.

Zane’s voice echoes in my head, followed by my dad’s.“Hockey’s not a career, Caleb. You think you’re good enough to make it pro?”

Dad said it the day Zane quit. Said it with a glass of whiskey in his hand and disappointment etched into his face.“You’re good, Caleb. But not that good. Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is your future. Look at Zane. Smart friend of yours.”

“Caleb, you need to know this,” Professor Stein’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I blink up at him, trying not to look as dead inside as I feel. “Yeah. Totally.”

He sighs and moves on.

When class ends, I stuff the test into my backpack, resisting the urge to crumple it into a ball. The second I’m out the door, my phone buzzes.

Coach Jacobs: My office. Now.

I groan, running a hand through my hair. This is about the grades. I know it. I’m screwed. Coach warned me last week, and here I am, handing him another reason to bench me.

I head across campus, dodging the groups of students spilling out of classrooms. My balls ache with every step, and it’s all I can do not to limp. I’m half in my head, thinking about what Coach is going to say, when I slam into someone.

Hot liquid splashes all over my hoodie.

“What the—” I jump back, staring down at the mess. Coffee. Scalding, fucking coffee.

“Oh my God!” The girl gasps, eyes wide. Green eyes. Wild, curly hair. It’s her.

Again.

“Are you serious right now?” I snap, peeling my hoodie away from my skin. The coffee’s already soaking through.

“I—I’m so sorry!” She looks horrified, clutching an empty coffee cup.