Page 5

Until I choked out on the ice last night, I was looking forward to the charity event.

"Get up," Trey says, tossing my gym bag at me, and then hands me a glass of water and two Advil. "Best cure for a hangover is sweating it out. Plus, Coach will have your ass doing drills until you drop if you miss morning skate."

"I hate you both," I mutter, but I drag myself up off the couch anyway. The room spins slightly before settling, like a bad power play rotation.

“Bullshit you do,” Aleksi says. “If it weren’t for us, you’d be lying face down in a pile of your own vomit in the alley behind Oakley’s. We dragged your drunk ass home.”

He’s right.

I had a shit night, and they did me a solid.

Any other night, it might have been one of them drinking away negative thoughts and I would have made sure they got home too. That’s what you do for your teammates.

The locker room is lively by the time we arrive.

Everyone is suiting up for practice. The familiar scene of Scottie wolfing down another protein shake and of Slade and Olsen taping up knees and shoulders from past injuries—a locker room full of teammates ready to get back on the ice after last night to prove we’re better than that.

"Heard you almost challenged me to a dance battle last night," Wolf Ziegler, our right defender, calls out, pulling his practice jersey over his head. "Something about roller skates?"

"Never happened," I say, taking a seat on the bench to lace up my skates. "No witnesses."

"I have video," Slade offers, pulling his practice jersey up over his head.

"Delete it or I'll tell Coach who the mastermind behind filling his car with ping pong balls last month was."

That shuts him up. Some pranks are better left in the past.

Especially since the city had to get involved, bringing out the street sweepers to clean up all twenty-seven thousand ping pong balls to fill his four-door truck. The minute he opened his door, they spilled out into the parking lot and flooded the city streets.

The Hawkeyes got a fat bill for the cleanup, which Penelope made every player on the team split.

It was worth it.

I start my warm-up, trying to outskate both the hangover and my colossal fuck-ups with missing that goal last night and with Peyton. Tack on the fact that I have a sinking feeling that my mom’s cancer has come back, and this week is shaping up to be complete shit.

"So," Trey says, following behind me as we make our way out onto the rink. "You want to talk about what's really going on?"

"Not particularly."

"Your mom's tests?"

I wish I had an answer for him—an answer for me, even, but I have neither. "She says she hasn’t gotten any news back from the doctor yet."

"It’s been over a month, hasn’t it?"

I nod, the guilt creeping back in because if I were there, I could go to these appointments with her.

I could talk to the doctors myself. I make enough money with my new contract that I can pay for any new treatments or any specialists they could recommend, but she turns me down every time I suggest that she move out here so I can take care of her.

"You know you can't control everything, right?" he says, matching my pace. "Your mom's health, last night's game—"

Some things you can't outrun, no matter how fast you skate out on the ice, no matter how hard the hit, no matter how many goals you score.

As we step onto the ice, the chill hits me, and I try to shake off the remnants of last night.

My teammates are already skating, their laughter echoing off the walls—a reminder of the camaraderie we share—and for a second, I remember that last night is over and gone, and today is a new day with an upcoming game that needs our full attention.

Living in the past, focusing on last night's loss—and humiliating myself in front of Peyton—won’t do anyone any good. We have to focus on what's ahead.

I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, and push everything else aside.

But as I start to glide across the ice, the weight of my mom’s health is unwelcome company. It’s hard to concentrate on the puck when my mind is a swirling mess of guilt and anxiety.

“Hey, Reed!” Slade shouts from across the ice, breaking me from my thoughts. “Let’s see if you can actually hit the net today!”

Laughter erupts from the other players, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll hit the net when it counts,” I call back, trying to shake off the tension.

The practice begins, and as we run drills, I focus on the rhythm of my movements, the sound of blades slicing across the ice, and the satisfying thud of the puck hitting the back of the net. For a moment, it feels like everything else fades away, and it’s just me, the ice, and the game I love.

But every time I glance at the empty seats in the stands, I’m reminded of the auction tomorrow. The pressure is back, and the anxiety swells again. What if I make a fool of myself again? What if I can’t shake this hangover? What if I run into Peyton, and she decides to call me out for last night?

Just as I’m about to zone out again, Trey skates up beside me, his expression serious.

“Reed, you need to talk to her,” he says, his voice low. “You owe her that much.”

“I know,” I admit, the weight of his words sinking in. “But what do I even say? ‘Sorry for being an asshole?’”

“Start with an apology,” he replies, shrugging. “But you can’t just let her think you’re some prick who doesn’t know how to treat a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’ll figure it out. Just...let me get through today."

As practice wraps up, I can’t shake the feeling that tomorrow is going to change everything. The pressure is building, but I can’t ignore it anymore. I need to face it head-on, just like I do on the ice.

And surely I’ll be able to find the right words to make things right with Peyton.

I push off the ice, adrenaline coursing through me, knowing that while I can’t control everything, I can at least control my effort. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to get me through the chaos of this week.