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My alarm was set for 5:15 AM, but my eyes snapped open at 4:59. I stared at the ceiling, already feeling that familiar tightness in my chest. Game day. Well, practice day, but with NHL scouts becoming a regular fixture at our university rink, every practice felt like game seven of the Stanley Cup finals.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The apartment was silent except for the distant sounds of Dylan's snoring from the other bedroom. My best friend and teammate operated on a completely different schedule—one that generally didn't acknowledge the existence of mornings before 9 AM.

In the kitchen, I pulled out my blender, mentally calculating the exact right protein-to-carb ratio I'd need to sustain me through today's brutal practice. Coach Alvarez had promised a "special surprise" yesterday, which generally translated to "I'm going to make you skate until you puke." As I measured protein powder, I pulled up my tablet to review our latest plays.

The sound of the blender had barely died down when Dylan appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up in at least twelve different directions, eyes barely open.

"Dude," he groaned, "do you have to commune with the sunrise gods every single morning? Some of us were up until 2 AM finishing Professor Wilson's essay." He shuffled toward the coffee maker, moving like a zombie with a hangover.

"That essay was assigned three weeks ago," I pointed out, taking a sip of my shake. It tasted like chalk and optimism, as always.

"Yes, Captain Responsible, I'm aware." Dylan dramatically pressed buttons on the coffee maker. "But some of us have a very specific creative process that involves procrastinating until the last possible moment and then experiencing a beautiful panic-induced clarity."

I snorted. "How'd that work out for you?"

"I'll have you know I wrote four thousand words of pure genius. Or complete garbage. I won't know which until I'm sober enough to read it." Dylan leaned against the counter, observing me with amusement. "Meanwhile, there you are, performing your daily ritual. Tell me, what exactly happens during these crack-of-dawn sessions? Do you commune with the spirit of hockey past? Do you photosynthesize protein powder directly through your skin?"

"I prepare. Something you might want to try sometime."

Dylan dramatically clutched his chest. "Preparation? The very concept offends my soul. Besides, I need the chaos. Have you seen the difference between your side of the apartment and mine?"

"You mean the difference between 'habitable' and 'potential health code violation'?"

"I prefer 'carefully curated disaster zone,'" Dylan grinned, pouring his coffee. "It's my creative process."

My phone rang, interrupting our banter. My father's name flashed on the screen, and just like that, the easy morning atmosphere evaporated. I took a steadying breath before answering.

"Hey, Dad."

"Ethan, you're up." It wasn't a question. Richard Wright had long abandoned pleasantries since I was twelve.

"Yes, sir. Just having breakfast before practice." I turned away from Dylan, who suddenly became very interested in the refrigerator contents.

"What's Alvarez running today? Has he improved that power play setup I mentioned last week? The one where you were wasting too much time on the transition?"

I gripped my phone tighter. "We've been working on it."

"Working on it isn't good enough, Ethan. Those scouts demand precision, execution. Not effort." I could practically see my father pacing in his home office, surrounded by his NHL trophies and the framed jersey that represented his career cut short by a devastating knee injury. "Have you watched the game footage I sent? I marked several moments where your positioning was sloppy."

"I've reviewed it." Three times, actually, making careful notes each time.

"And?"

"And I'll do better today."

A heavy sigh came through the phone. “This isn’t just another practice, son. Every second on that ice is an audition for your future. One slip—”

“—and it could cost me everything,” I cut in, the words rolling off my tongue from years of hearing them. “I know, Dad. I won’t let you down.”

"See that you don't." A pause. "Call me after practice."

The call ended, and I set my phone down, my knuckles white against the counter's edge. My stomach clenched as an unwanted memory surfaced—me at fourteen, hiding in a locker room equipment closet after missing the winning shot in a junior championship. I could still feel the cold metal against my cheek, still smell the stale sweat and equipment. Still hear my father's disappointed silence on the drive home, louder than any shouting could have been.

I shoved the memory down, straightening my shoulders. That was then. This was now. And now, I was Captain Ethan Wright, NHL prospect, with a future as bright as the ice under arena lights.

"Your dad?" Dylan asked quietly, all traces of his usual joking manner gone.

"Yeah."

"Same old pep talk?"

"The Wright special," I confirmed, draining my protein shake.

Dylan clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, screw him. You're the best player this university has seen in a decade, and everyone knows it. Even Coach Hardass Alvarez admits it, and he'd rather eat his own whistle than hand out compliments."

I appreciated Dylan's support, but the weight of my father's expectations had been part of my gear for so long, I wasn't sure I'd know how to skate without it.

The university's hockey rink was my second home, the sharp scent of ice and the hollow sound of pucks hitting boards as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. As I entered, several teammates were already warming up, including our goalie Tyler, who was doing his usual bizarre pre-practice stretching routine that looked like a cross between yoga and an exorcism.

"Wright!" Coach Alvarez's voice echoed across the ice. "My office, now."

I exchanged glances with Dylan, who shrugged. I followed Coach to his small office, littered with play diagrams, team photos, and a disturbing collection of empty energy drink cans.

"Close the door," Coach said, settling behind his desk. He fixed me with that intense stare that had terrified generations of university hockey players. "I've got news."

My heart rate kicked up. "Good or bad, Coach?"

"Depends on how you handle it." He leaned forward. "Pittsburgh's sending their top scout to observe practice today."

A jolt of electricity shot through me. Pittsburgh. One of the top teams in the NHL.

"This is just preliminary," Coach continued. "But word is they're very interested in you for their draft. Very interested."

I tried to keep my expression neutral, professional. Inside, my mind was racing. Pittsburgh. The fucking Seals.

"There's more," Coach said, his expression sobering. "They're not just looking at your play, Ethan. They're assessing your character. Your stability."

And there it was. The unspoken issue that had been hovering over my season.

"Coach, that incident during sophomore year was—"

"I'm not talking about the fight, though that didn't help." Coach sighed. "Look, you know I'm your biggest advocate. But there have been concerns about your... intensity. The way you lost it with Marco during the scrimmage last month. And then there's the whole situation with Vanessa."

I flinched at the mention of my ex-girlfriend's name. Our breakup four months ago had been messy, public, and poorly timed—right before a crucial game that we'd subsequently lost.

"That's over," I said firmly.

"Is it? Because rumor is she's thinking of giving things another shot, and the last thing you need right now is emotional drama." Coach leaned back in his chair. "NHL teams invest millions in their draft picks, Ethan. They want players who are solid on and off the ice. Steady. Reliable."

"I am reliable."

"On the ice, you're a machine. Off the ice..." He spread his hands. "Just keep it together, Wright. Eyes on the prize. No distractions, no explosions."

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now get out there and show that scout why you deserve to wear a Pittsburgh jersey next season."

Practice was brutal, exactly as expected. Coach ran us through every drill in his sadistic repertoire, with special emphasis on the power play formations that my father had criticized. I pushed everything else away—my father's voice, Coach's warnings, the scout's watchful presence in the stands. There was only the ice, the puck, the perfect line between my stick and the goal.

I landed pass after pass, executed defensive maneuvers with military precision, and put three beautiful goals past Tyler, who swore creatively after each one. By the end of practice, my lungs were burning, but the scout was smiling and making notes, which had to be a good sign.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was lighter, despite everyone's exhaustion. Dylan collapsed dramatically onto a bench.

"I think I'm dying," he announced to the ceiling. "Actually, no—I think I'm already dead. This is hockey purgatory."

"Could be worse," Tyler said, removing his goalie pads. "Remember last year when Coach made us skate for hours because someone put a rubber duck in his office?"

"Worth it," muttered Sanchez, our left wing.

"Hey, Wright," called Reyes from across the room. "Did you hear about the photographer?"

I looked up from unlacing my skates. "What photographer?"

"The university paper's sending someone to cover our season," Tyler explained. "Their regular guy broke his leg doing some skateboarding stunt."

"Great," I muttered. Just what we needed—more people watching, more pressure.

"Speaking of watching," Dylan said, dropping his voice as he sat beside me, "the scout seemed impressed. I overheard him talking to Coach about your 'exceptional spatial awareness,' whatever the hell that means."

"It means I know where the puck is going before it goes there," I replied, but I couldn't help the small flicker of satisfaction. Exceptional. I'd take it.

"Party at the hockey house this weekend," announced Jackson, our defenseman. "Everyone's expected to attend and behave...inappropriately."

A chorus of approval went around the room. I stayed quiet. Parties meant drinking, drinking meant lowered inhibitions, and lowered inhibitions meant potential disasters that scouts might hear about.

"Count me out," I said, pulling on my sweatshirt.

Dylan rolled his eyes. "Dude, you need to relax. One party won't kill your NHL dreams."

"It might if Vanessa shows up," Tyler pointed out, unhelpfully.

"All the more reason to skip it," I said.

Dylan stepped in front of me, crossing his arms. "Ethan. Brother. Best friend. Light of my life."

"What?"

"You need to chill before you snap. All work and no play makes Ethan a dull NHL prospect."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're so tightly wound that I'm worried one day I'll come home to find you've just spontaneously combusted and left a pile of hockey gear and protein powder on the floor."

I shoved him away. "Shut up."

"And speaking of Vanessa," Tyler said carefully. "She was asking about you in my Political Science class yesterday."

My good mood evaporated. "What did she want?"

Tyler shrugged. "The usual. Whether you were seeing anyone. If you ever mentioned her. If you seemed... I don't know, 'open to reconciliation' was the phrase she used."

"Jesus," I muttered.

"Want my advice?" Tyler offered.

"Not particularly."

"Find someone new," he said anyway. "Seriously. Nothing keeps an ex away like seeing you happy with someone else."

"I don't have time for relationships right now," I said firmly. "The season, the draft—it's all that matters."

"Whatever you say, Captain." Tyler didn't look convinced. None of them did.

Back at our apartment that evening, I was reviewing game footage on my laptop when Dylan emerged from his room, hair wet from the shower, wearing what appeared to be pajama pants with cartoon tacos on them.

"Dude, seriously?" He gestured at my screen. "It's been like twelve hours of hockey today. Give it a rest."

"Can't. Pittsburgh scout."

"Is going to want a human being, not a hockey robot." Dylan flopped onto the couch beside me. "When was the last time you did something just for fun?"

I ignored the question, focusing on the screen. "My reaction time on the right-side defense is still too slow."

Dylan sighed heavily, then reached over and closed my laptop.

"Hey!"

"Listen to me, Wright. You're the best player on the team. You're going to get drafted. But if you don't occasionally remove the hockey stick from your ass, you're going to burn out before you ever make it to the NHL."

I glared at him. "I'm focused."

"You're obsessed. There's a difference." Dylan's expression grew serious, which was rare and therefore concerning. "I get it, man. The pressure from your dad, the scouts, your own expectations—it's a lot. But being more than just hockey isn't going to destroy your career. It might save it."

I wanted to argue, but there was enough truth in his words to make me uncomfortable. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are." Dylan stood up. "I'm ordering pizza. With carbs. And you're going to eat it and then watch something stupid on TV with me because it's what normal twenty-two-year-olds do on a Tuesday night."

"Fine."

"And we're not going to talk about hockey, or Pittsburgh, or your dad, or—"

"I get it."

"Or Vanessa," he finished, giving me a pointed look.

I tensed at her name. "Yeah. Definitely not her."

"Well, you can't ghost the issue forever, man." Dylan pulled out his phone. "So. Pizza. And then you're going to tell me what your plan is for the Vanessa situation."

"There is no situation. We broke up."

"And yet, she circled back like a shark that smells blood in the water. Specifically, the blood of your imminent NHL contract." Dylan started tapping on his phone. "The usual toppings?"

"Yeah," I sighed, giving up on getting any more analysis done tonight. "And there's no plan because there's nothing to plan for. I'm not getting back together with her."

"Bold statement. But Vanessa has ways of complicating simple equations."

He wasn't wrong. Vanessa was beautiful, smart, determined, and accustomed to getting exactly what she wanted. What she'd wanted four months ago was more of my time and attention than I could give while maintaining my hockey performance. What she seemed to want now was... well, me again, but under new circumstances.

"It doesn't matter what she wants," I said firmly. "I'm not interested."

Dylan gave me a skeptical look. "She's still into you, bro. And she's not the type to take rejection quietly. You need a strategy."

"My strategy is to focus on hockey."

"Yeah, good luck with that when she's showing up at practices and games and parties making doe eyes at you." He sent the pizza order and pocketed his phone. "You know what you need?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"A buffer. A human shield against the Vanessa offensive."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

"Hell no. I have enough trauma from witnessing your relationship the first time around." Dylan tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You need a new girl."

"I just told you—"

"Not a real girlfriend," he clarified. "A strategic one. Someone to keep Vanessa at a distance while you focus on dazzling the scouts. Then when the season's over and you've signed your fancy NHL contract, you can have an amicable fake breakup and go back to being the hockey monk you apparently aspire to be."

I stared at him. "That is the stupidest idea you've ever had, and I'm including the time you tried to make ramen in the coffee maker."

"That was efficiency, not stupidity," Dylan defended. "And this is brilliant. Think about it—no emotional investment, no distractions, just someone to create the appearance of unavailability."

"Where exactly would I find this willing accomplice for your insane scheme?"

Dylan shrugged. "I don't know. That's a detail. I'm a big-picture guy."

I shook my head, already dismissing the ridiculous idea. But as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and mentally reviewing my career goals—finish the season strong, get drafted, secure my future—a treacherous thought slipped in.

What would it be like to have someone who actually understood the pressure I was under? Someone who could be there without demanding more than I could give? Someone who saw me as more than just the Wright hockey legacy or an NHL prospect?

I pushed the thought away. No distractions. No complications. Eyes on the prize. Hockey was my priority. My only priority. Nothing and no one would change that.