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He’s trying to ease the tension, but it won’t work. We both know it.

“Do it again!” Coach’s whistle screeches across the ice. “From the beginning. Scoring mentality, Ashby!”

We’ve been running this 3-vs-3 drill for an hour, and I’m not the only one who’s fucking it up. I’m probably not even the only one who’s preoccupied with pussy rather than the puck. But I am the only one, other than Wicker, that has two sets of eyes watching their every move. Father showed up thirty minutes into practice and has been standing next to Coach Reed, arms crossed over his chest, speaking into his ear.

Shit.

“Don’t let him in your head,” Wicker says quietly, lining up next to me, puck in front of him. “We’ve done this a million times. We own this fucking rink.”

I give him a look that I hope conveys what I’m thinking.

That shit feels so distant that it might as well have happened in another lifetime. The life before prison. Before the trial. Before the cops. Before Spring Break. Before I saw a girl online and decided to make her my next mark.

“It’s on a three-count. I’ll snap you the puck—you take the shot.”

Frustrated, I bark, “I know.”

The whistle cuts through the air, and we fall into formation–me outside of the circle, Wicker inside of it, facing off with Tommy Wright. I focus on my brother, the puck, the net at the top of the circle. I try not to let him get under my skin, try to shake her from my mind, focused only on the feel of my skates, the stick in my hands, the—

The whistle shrieks out. “You’re in the circle!” Reed shouts, and I realize I’ve been so focused on Wicker’s stickwork that I’ve drifted over the drill boundaries.

All the players deflate, skating back in place.

Anxiety rips up my spine, settling in my chest. And even though I don’t want to, I glance up to the stands, eyes shifting next to Coach, but Father is gone, his dark frame already exiting the rink.

The whistle blows again, but this time the sharp screech signals Reed’s irritation. “Forget this. Since some of you can’t seem to find a hole that doesn’t have hair around it, we’re finishing up with twenty suicides!”

There’s a loud groan and a couple of sharp ‘fuck’s’ muttered down the line. Baxter shoots me a dirty look. Wicker, ever the arrogant leader, pushes off the ice to yell, “Let’s get started!”

By the time we’re done, everyone is huffing and puffing, coated in sweat. Baxter barfs in the trash can on his way into the locker room, and Loeffler is holding his upper thigh like he might have strained something. I’m angrily stripping off my pads as I march into the gym when Wick grabs my arm. “You can’t let him rattle you like this.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure, you’re not.” He sighs, pushing his sweaty hair back. “I know you’re just not used to him being around, and that things are awkward as fuck between you, but ultimately he just wants us to be the best.”

Not do.Be.

Not our.The.

I am used to being watched–by CO’s, other prisoners, and guards around the prison. None carried the oppressive weight of Rufus Ashby.

“I liked it better when he was ignoring me.” I strip off the rest of my uniform, dumping the sweaty, smelly clothes in the hamper. I’m looking forward to washing off the grime and humiliating practice when I hear my name.

“Pace!”

I look over, seeing that it’s one of the assistant coaches. “Reed wants to see you.”

Everyone is watching me now, but Wicker just shoves my shoulder and says, “Play nice.”

When I reach the room, I half expect father to be behind the desk, but no, that would look like he cared. Coach Reed is in the chair, jerking his chin for me to shut the door. He doesn’t offer me a seat.

“You want to tell me what the fuck was going on out there today?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Distracted, I guess.”

He’s quiet for a moment, rubbing his chin. “I’m not going to bullshit you, Ashby. You and Wick bailing on the team two years ago was a hard blow. I’d organized the entire lineup around your skills and poof,” he snaps his fingers, “that evaporated. Whittaker is a good, disciplined player, but if it were up to me, I probably wouldn’t let you back on the team at all. Especially with the fuck-ups you’re making out there on the ice.” His jaw tenses. “But it’s not up to me. We both know that.”

It’s up to Father. He’s calling the shots here with his influence and donations to Forsyth. With the former head of Athletics, Saul Cartwright, gone, it’s been even easier for him to throw his weight around.