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GoalieGod: I wish I was alone. Everyone in this house is getting laid but me.

T: Even Reid?

GoalieGod: Specifically, Reid. He just came in here looking for condoms.

T: The girlfriend?

GoalieGod: Yeah. They’re on and off but can’t seem to shake each other.

T: Must be nice to have a consistent, reliable, safe person to fuck around with.

GoalieGod: Even if he’s not headed to the NFL?

T: I’d settle for the NHL at this point.

GoalieGod: Are you trying to get me to enter the draft, T?

T: * winky face *

GoalieGod: It’s not nice to taunt a desperate man.

T: You’re right. It’s not like I show up to your house, take off my shirt and flirt with you.

GoalieGod: Fair. Okay, you talked me off the ledge. I owe you one.

T: Night, Ax.

I’ve just put the phone down when there’s another knock on my door. “Son of a bitch, Reid!” I grab the box of condoms. “Just take the whole goddamn box–”

I throw it at the door just as it swings open. The package hits Reese in the chest and it drops to the floor. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” I thrust a hand into my hair. “I thought you were Reid.”

He gives me a hard look and then says, “Coach called.” He bends picking up the box of condoms and shoving them in his pocket. “Your test results are in.”

Coach Bryant sitsbehind his desk, the slip of paper in front of him. A gold pen clenched between his fingers, tapping on the desk. It’s 8 AM. The rest of the guys are in the weight room–well, everyone but Reese.

He’s standing next to Bryant’s desk, shoulders back, arms crossed. He’s not my friend in here, he’s firmly in the role of captain. Eyes steely and he hasn’t looked at me since I walked in.

I clear my throat, unable to take the silence anymore.

“I started the online drug education course you sent me. I’m about halfway–”

“This isn’t about that, Rakestraw,” Coach snaps, running a hand through his hair. “Your blood test results came back. I’m not even sure where to begin.”

There shouldn’t be anywhere to begin. I smoked–shared–one joint. That’s it. The tense muscle in Reese’s jaw tells me there’s more. That I’d done it again. Fucked up.

“They found GHP in your system,” Coach says, sliding the paperwork over.

“GHP?” I repeat, taking the paperwork but not looking at it. “That’s–”.

“Typically used for incapacitating people–most often women.”

“Fuck.” I sink into my seat. “That can’t be right.”

“There’s a list of side-effects on the back of that paper. Did you experience any of those?”

I flip the sheet and read down the list, my spine tingling. Nausea, vomiting, memory loss, drowsiness and confusion. There are more–euphoria and impaired muscle coordination…