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The thought of Elliot’s hands comes back to me unasked,and I know the answer isn’t as clear-cut as I want it to be when my dick twitches.

Practice is brutal.My legs are filled with lead, and my lungs are on fire. Coach Donovan has us running drill after drill, and the guys are starting to mutter under their breath about his latest tyrant streak. I keep my head down and push through, trying to drown out the thoughts that have been plaguing me all day.

We set up for a scrimmage, and I’m on the ice with Oliver, Nathan Paisley, and a few other freshmen. The puck drops, and we’re off to the races.

Oliver feeds me a perfect pass right in the slot, and I wind up for a one-timer. In my head, I see the puck exploding off my stick, ripping past the goalie’s glove hand and into the top corner of the net.

Instead, I whiff it completely. My stick clatters against the ice, and I lose my balance, crashing down in an ungraceful heap. The puck trickles harmlessly into the corner as the other guys burst out on a breakaway.

I hear Oliver groan and Nathan curse. Embarrassment washes over me as I scramble to my feet. This isnotme. I’m usually solid in practice, if notspectacular. But today, my body isn’t responding to what my brain says.

The scrimmage winds down, and I skate to the bench. My mind replays the missed shot nonstop, and each time is more painful than the last. I can’t afford to be this sloppy…ever. Not if I want to get into the NHL someday.

“Gunnarson.” Coach Donovan’s bark slices through the ambient noise of the rink. “A word.”

I gulp. This can’t be good.

I step onto the rubber matting and make my way toward him.His arms are crossed over his chest, and a whistle dangles around his thick neck. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, but I know they’re shooting daggers at me. “Yes, Coach?”

“You’ve been completely out of sync all afternoon.”

“I’m just”—Tired? Distracted? Questioning my entire identity?—“off my game, Coach. I promise I’ll get it together.”

He doesn’t say anything, and sweat trickles down my neck, soaking into my shoulder pads as time slows to a crawl.

“Come with me,” he finally says, turning on his heel and striding toward the locker room entrance.

I hesitate for a split second before following him. The sound of my skates on the concrete flooring echoes ominously. My stomach churns with a mix of fear and anticipation.What if he benches me? Or worse—what if he cuts me from the team?

We reach his office, and he opens the door with a swipe of his keycard. The small room is cluttered with stacks of papers, old trophies, and various pieces of hockey memorabilia. A framed jersey hangs on the wall behind his desk—number fourteen, Donovan—with a slew of signatures scrawled across it.

He shuts the door behind us and gestures to the small seat in front of his desk. “Sit.”

I eye the chair warily. With all my gear on, I’m a human tank, and this seat is more suited for a child’s playroom than a college coach’s office. But the longer I stand here, not moving, the more aggravated Coach will get, so I lower myself slowly, hoping it doesn’t explode under my weight.

Coach Donovan sits in his chair behind the desk and steeples his fingers, waiting for me to settle down. I shift uncomfortably, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me look as ridiculous as I feel. My knees nearly reach my ears, and my poor balls are being squashed between my thighs. The jockstrap and cup are only making matters worse.

“Gunnarson,” Coach starts, then pauses, and my heart does a tap dance in my chest. “I know about the Ice Queen.”

Cheese on a Ritz cracker.Does he think the blog is distracting me? That I’m letting the attention go to my head?

“My son filled me in,” he continues. “He says she delivered an enlightening commentary about your…rear end.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, she did.”

The silence that follows stretches like taffy, and Coach lets it hang, heavy and sticky-sweet with unspoken accusations.

“Look, Coach, I didn’t ask for any of it,” I blurt out. “The attention, I mean. She just started writing about me, and then?—”

He holds up a beefy hand, and I shut my mouth so fast my teeth click together.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” he says. “Press like that can be useful. It gets people talking and puts butts in seats.” He leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. “What I’m concerned about is how you’re handling it.”

Handling it?Heck, I’m not even sure how toprocessit. That post about my butt was a bombshell in my life, and the next one—about my hands—is sure to be another direct hit.But I did give her permission, so do I have room to complain?“I’m handling it fine.”

Coach Donovan removes his sunglasses, revealing an intense heat in his hazel eyes. They’re not angry or accusatory. They’re searching. “Are you?”

I fidget in the tiny chair. “I think so.”