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Coach Green opens the door for me and rests a hand on my shoulder. He leans in and says, “If you’re just partying, that’s onething, but if this is something else, like you’re struggling with something, I’m here if you need me.”

“I’m not, but thanks,” I say, stepping into the hall and taking a deep breath. At twenty-two years old I still hate getting called to the mat by authority figures. Makes me feel like a little kid again. I do my best to avoid it, but I have no one else to blame for this one but myself.

It’s obvious from the lack of noise coming from the locker room that the rest of the team has already left. There’s no post practice music or loud trash talk. I’m relieved, definitely not in the mood to rehash what just went down. I feel like such a fuck up. Weed? I’m smarter than this.

I walk in and immediately realize that someone is waiting for me.

Reese.

He’s sitting on the bench, a skate between his thighs, adding a fresh pair of laces. My shoulders tighten at what I know is going to be my second lecture of the day. So, I decide to get ahead of it. “Probation,” I tell him, reaching my locker and opening the door. “I’ll probably have to go to a health seminar or watch some of those godforsaken videos the conference puts out. But I’m still on the ice.”

I hear a grunt, but nothing else, as he fusses with his skate.

I strip, yanking off my practice jersey and pants. I ball them up and toss them in the bin across the room. Resting my hands on my hips, I look at him. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you obviously hung around after practice to tell me.”

“I’m not waiting to talk to you.” He looks up for the first time. “My fucking lace snapped during practice.”

“Good, because Bryant already did the job of informing me that I need to get my shit together and stop letting the teamdown.” I turn back to my locker and grab my bag. “I don’t need to hear it from you too.”

I just need to get out of here. Get some food in my belly and take a long nap. I’ve just pulled my sweats up to my hips when he says, “He’s right.”

Jesus Christ.

I slam my fist into the metal door. “I knew you couldn’t let it go.”

“Dude, I think I’ve earned the right to say something right now. Not just as your captain, but as your friend.”

I spin and spread my arms. “Go ahead then, take your best shot.”

He’s standing now, and Reese is a big mother fucker. At least three inches taller than I am. “It’s not a shot, Ax, it’s the goddamn truth. I’ve been watching you party harder and harder as the years go by. Every day we get closer to winning this thing, you amp it up another notch. You know I don’t have a problem blowing off steam. You can drink whatever you want, fuck whoever you want, go on a three day bender. I don’t give a shit.”

He takes a breath, and I sense him trying to maintain control.

“But what you’re doing now is looking a lot more like sabotage every day, which if it was just you, then I’d say go for it. But the problem is that it’s not just you. It’s the team. It’s me, Jefferson, and Reid. It’s those freshmen who are relying on us to leave them with a legacy. It’s Coach Bryant. We’ve all worked too fucking hard to get to this place, but without you in the net there’s no fucking way we can win this thing.” He swallows. “And to be honest, I don’t want to win it without you. We got here together. We’re going to finish this together.”

Well damn.

This is why Reese is the captain. It’s not just because he’s the best on the ice. He’s the best off too.

I thrust my hand in my hair and say, “I told coach I’ll do better, and I will. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” He reaches out, fingers curled. “It’ll be worth it. We can walk out of Wittmore with the trophy and all the opportunities it will afford us.”

I nod, linking my hand with his and clutching it tight. The tension between us smooths, although the tight ball in my chest doesn’t. Winning that trophy will change nothing about my future. It’ll just be another reminder of how much I have to give up.

3

Nadia

After three years,you’d think I’d be used to the sharp feel of cold wind as I walk across campus, but it still surprises me every time. Ducking my head, I hurry to the front doors of the business school and rush inside. It’s hard to believe that I only have the final month of fall semester and then the spring left before I’ll graduate and leave Wittmore behind.

I feel like I’ve barely accomplished any of the goals that I set out when I arrived from Florida. I’d picked a school so far away, because other than an education, I came here with the grand plan of reinventing myself. I wanted nothing more than to be a different person than I was back home, where I’d wrapped up my high school career with drama and bad decisions. I’d hoped for a fresh start in a new town, a new school, with new friends, but whatever I thought was going to change my life for the better, didn’t. I guess in eight months, I’ll have the opportunity to do it again.

I enter the room late, and take an open chair on the edge of the room, unwrapping the scarf my aunt knitted for me fromaround my neck. I hang it and my hat on the back of my chair. It’s the layers that I hate. Scarves, hats, gloves, coats. I still prefer the shorts and crop tops I can wear year round in my home state. Peeling off the rest of the layers, I get out my laptop while the professor continues with his lecture.