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“Dead serious.” I gesture to the chaos. “This is a nightmare. You’ve got notes on napkins, random sticky notes. What is that, a receipt?”

“It’s a system.”

“It’s a disaster.”

He shakes his head but grins. “Alright, if you think you can handle it, go ahead.”

“Trust me, I’ve got this.”

“You sure? I don’t want this screwing with your schoolwork.”

“I’ll be fine.” I shove the last bite of pizza in my mouth. “Multitasking is my thing.”

“Okay, but you need to catch up…”

“I’m fine,” I cut him off, standing to grab a drink. “Promise, Coach. I’m digitally organized. You’re going to love it. I’m a pro.”

The next morning, my alarm goes off way too early. Seven o’clock sharp. I groan, debating whether I should just bury myself under the covers and pretend I didn’t promise Dad I’d help him with his office. But then I remember how excited he looked when I said I’d do it. Damn it.

By the time we pull up to his office, I’m clutching a travel mug of coffee like it’s life support.

“Alright,” Dad says, unlocking the door. “Don’t judge.”

The door swings open, and I immediately regret agreeing to this.

“Holy shit,” I say, staring at the chaos with new eyes. “Dad, this is worse than I thought.”

I finally see that there are papers everywhere on the desk, the floor, even stacked on a chair. A whiteboard leans against the wall with half-erased plays, and a coffee mug that says#1 Coachis filled with pens, most of which don’t have caps.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, stepping over a pile of binders like it’s normal.

“It’s a hazard zone.”

He laughs, grabbing his jacket. “Alright, I’m heading to the rink. You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” I say, already eyeing the mess with a sense of doom. “See you after practice.”

“Thanks, kid.” He pats my shoulder before heading out.

The second he’s gone, I dive in. I start by gathering all the loose papers into one giant pile, which feels like trying to clean up after a tornado. I’m halfway through sorting them by date when the door swings open.

I glance up, expecting Dad, but no. It’s Caleb.

He’s in a jersey, his hair damp like he just stepped out of the shower. He looks annoyingly good, even with the permanent scowl he’s got going on.

“Coach sent me to grab the playbook,” he grunts, not bothering with a hello.

I notice his limp as he walks in, his left leg dragging slightly. My mouth moves before I can stop it.

“You alright?”

He freezes, glaring at me. “What?”

“You’re limping,” I say, motioning toward his leg. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing.”

I grab the playbook off the desk and hand it to him, trying not to notice how his fingers brush mine when he takes it. A stupid, tiny spark zips through me.