Page 19

I couldn't sleep. Again.

The clock read 3:17 AM, glowing red, taunting. Sleep was a lost cause. My mind replayed the ski trip relentlessly: Mia laughing at our pillow wall, the soft shock of her lips finally meeting mine, the feel of her breast heavy in my palm, the sheer, undeniable intimacy of the sex that followed.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Hockey had always been my singular focus—the one thing I understood completely. But now? Now my brain was a jumbled mess: hockey plays tangled with Mia's smile; scout reports competing with the scent of her shampoo; Championship strategies blurred by the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.

"This is bad," I muttered to my empty room. "Really bad."

My alarm was set to go off in less than three hours for morning practice. Coach Alvarez had been pushing us harder than ever with the semifinals approaching. I needed sleep. I needed focus.

I needed to stop thinking about Mia.

"Wright! What the hell was that?" Coach Alvarez's voice cut through the rink like a skate blade on fresh ice. "That's the third sloppy pass this morning. Get your head out of your ass!"

I winced, knowing he was right. I'd been distracted all practice, missing passes that I could normally make blindfolded.

"Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again," I called back, shaking my head to clear it.

Dylan skated up beside me. "Dude, you okay? You look like you didn't sleep."

"I'm fine," I muttered, adjusting my helmet.

"If by 'fine' you mean 'completely wrecked,' then sure, you're fine," he replied, nudging my shoulder.

I ignored him and skated away to join the next drill.

After we finished, Coach Alvarez pulled me aside as the rest of the team headed to the locker room.

"Wright, walk with me."

I followed him silently, already knowing what was coming. We stopped by the bleachers, empty except for a few stray gym bags.

"I got a call from Pittsburgh this morning," Coach said, fixing me with a serious stare. "They're sending their head scout to the semifinals and finals; Detroit and Chicago confirmed too."

My heart rate spiked. Three NHL teams. This was really happening.

"That's... great," I managed.

"It should be great," Coach agreed, crossing his arms. "But you're playing like someone who's already blown his chance. What's going on with you?"

I looked down at my skates. "Just some stuff on my mind. I'll get it sorted."

"Is this about Mia?"

My head snapped up. "What? No. Mia—I mean, it's not—" I stammered.

Coach raised an eyebrow. "Look, I don't care about your love life. But those scouts? They care about your focus. Your discipline. Your ability to lead under pressure." He tapped his temple. "Mental toughness is what separates good college players from NHL draft picks."

"I know," I said quietly.

"Then show me. Get your head straight before the semifinals. Whatever's distracting you—deal with it or shelve it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

As Coach walked away, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Though this pressure had followed me since childhood, it felt heavier now—like concrete hardening around my skates.

I headed to the locker room, trying to ignore the churning in my stomach. As I pushed through the doors, my phone rang. Dad. Perfect timing, as always.

I considered letting it go to voicemail, but that would only mean a more unpleasant conversation later. I pressed accept.

"Hi, Dad."

"Ethan. Just spoke with Coach. So the scouts are confirmed for the semifinals and finals."

"Yeah, I just heard."

“This is the moment, son—the culmination of everything we’ve sacrificed for. You need to bring your absolute best.”

"I know, Dad. I'm focused."

"Are you? Because Coach mentioned you seemed distracted while practicing."

I clenched my jaw. "I'm handling it."

"You need to be better than 'handling it.' Did you see Nico’s performance against State last weekend? Three goals, two assists, and that series of dekes in the third period? That kid's making waves, taking the kind of dynamic chances that get scouts excited. Why aren't you pushing the envelope like that?"

My free hand curled into a fist. Nico was a forward for our biggest rival, eternally linked to me in every scouting conversation.

"I'm playing my game, Dad. Coach says—"

"Your 'game' needs to stand out, Ethan. You're playing it too safe. These scouts are looking for the complete package—skill, leadership, and that X-factor. This is your last shot to prove you have it all. Don't waste years of work playing cautiously."

The familiar tightness crept into my chest. I counted silently backward from ten, a technique my high school counselor had taught me after I'd punched a locker door and broken two knuckles following a particularly brutal loss.

"I won't," I said, my voice strained.

"Good. I've booked my flight for the Finals. I'll be watching."

Of course he would.

"Great," I managed. "Looking forward to it."

After we hung up, I sat alone in the locker room, everyone else long gone. The familiar anxiety tightened around my chest like a vise. First round draft pick. NHL contract. My father's dreams. My future.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: Mia.

Mia, who saw me as more than just a hockey player. Mia, whose laugh made me forget about scouts and expectations. Mia, who was becoming a complication I couldn't afford right now.

I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually the lights dimmed—the automatic timers kicking in. I stared at my phone, debating whether to text her. We hadn't really talked about what happened during the ski trip.

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe I needed to focus solely on hockey right now. Maybe—

The locker room door swung open, and Dylan's head poked in.

"Dude, what the hell? I've been waiting in the car for twenty minutes. Are you communing with hockey spirits in here or what?"

I looked up, momentarily disoriented. "Sorry. Just thinking."

Dylan stepped fully into the room, taking in my hunched posture and the phone clutched in my hand.

"Your dad called, didn't he?" he asked quietly.

I nodded.

"That bad?"

"The usual."

Dylan sighed and sat down beside me. "Come on. We're going for a drive."

"I've got film to review and—"

"Nope," he interrupted, grabbing my gear bag. "Car. Now. You need air that doesn't smell like hockey sweat and disappointment."

Dylan's beat-up Jeep rumbled across campus, classic rock playing softly from the speakers. We drove in silence for a while, past the academic buildings, through the main quad, and eventually onto the winding road that circled the nearby lake.

Dylan glanced over. "You gonna talk, or just keep staring out the window like it holds the secrets to the universe?"

"Nothing to talk about," I muttered, watching the dark water slide past.

"Really?" He shifted, turning more towards me. "Because you haven't been you since the ski trip. You're quiet. You look like you're carrying the whole rink on your shoulders. Is it your dad? The scouts? Something else?"

I stared out the window at the lake, its surface calm and dark in the evening light. "It's nothing. Just pressure. The usual."

"Yeah, no. Not buying it." Dylan pulled into a scenic overlook and parked, turning to face me. "Something's different this time. And I'm pretty sure her name is Mia."

I sighed, knowing Dylan wouldn't let this go.

"It's complicated," I finally admitted.

"Complicated how? You like her. She likes you. Seems pretty simple to me."

"It started as a deal, Dylan," I reminded him, the frustration bubbling up. "A fake relationship. To keep Vanessa off my back, help her photo stuff. That was it."

Dylan snorted. "Yeah, and how's that working out for you? Because from where I'm sitting, you two stopped 'faking it' somewhere around, oh, I don't know, the Harvest Festival? Maybe earlier?"

I rubbed my temples. "That's the problem. The lines got blurred. Really blurred." I took a breath, forcing myself to say it. "We slept together on the ski trip."

The confession hung in the small space of the Jeep. Dylan didn't look shocked, just nodded slowly, like he'd maybe suspected something along those lines.

"Okay," he said calmly. "So it got real."

"Yeah," I admitted, feeling a strange mix of relief and renewed anxiety now that it was out. "And now I don't know what's what anymore. With the semifinals on the horizon, the championship right behind that, the scouts breathing down my neck, and Dad expecting results... I can't afford distractions right now."

"So Mia's just a distraction?" Dylan challenged.

"No! She's..." I trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. What was Mia to me now? "I don't know what she is. But I know what hockey is. It's my future. It's everything I've worked for. I can't risk that."

Dylan was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

"You know what I think?" he finally said. "I think you're scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Of feeling something real. Hockey's safe for you. It's all you've ever known. But Mia? Mia's uncharted territory."

I started to protest, but the words died in my throat. Maybe he was right.

"Look," Dylan continued, his voice gentler now, "I get it. The timing sucks. You've got the biggest games of your career coming up. But pushing away something good because you're afraid? That's not the Ethan Wright I know."

I stared out at the darkening sky. "What if I can't do both? What if I have to choose?"

"Who says you have to choose? Why can't you have hockey AND Mia?"

"Because..." I hesitated, the real fear finally surfacing. "Because what if I mess it all up? What if I lose focus and blow my shot at the NHL? Or what if I focus too much on hockey and hurt her? I've never been good at balancing, Dylan. It's always been all hockey, all the time."

Dylan started the Jeep back up. "Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's time to find out who Ethan Wright is when he's not just a hockey player."

We drove back to our apartment in silence, his words echoing in my head. Who was I without hockey? The thought was terrifying.

That night, I made a decision. Until after the championship, I needed to focus solely on hockey. It was the only way to ensure I didn't throw away everything I'd worked for. Mia would understand. She had to.

Over the next week, I threw myself into preparation with military precision. Early morning workouts. Extra skating practice. Film study until my eyes burned. Protein shakes instead of the occasional pizza with Dylan.

When Mia texted to see if I wanted to grab coffee, I replied that I was swamped with semifinals prep but would catch up with her soon. When she showed up at practice with her camera, I gave her a quick nod but kept my distance. Professional. Focused.

I told myself it was temporary. Just until after the championship. Just until my future was secure.

But I couldn't help noticing the confusion in her eyes when I rushed off after practice without our usual conversation. Or the way her smile dimmed when I made excuses to avoid our regular coffee meet-ups.

"You're being an idiot," Dylan informed me on day five of Operation Avoid Mia, as I declined yet another invitation to meet her for lunch.

"I'm being focused," I corrected, adding a scoop of protein powder to my blender.

"No, you're being a coward," he shot back. "And a bad boyfriend, fake or otherwise."

"This is temporary," I insisted. "Once the championship is over—"

"Once the championship is over, she might be done waiting for you to get your head out of your ass." Dylan grabbed his keys from the counter. "But hey, at least you'll have hockey, right?"

His words stung more than I wanted to admit. But I pushed the feeling aside. Hockey first, heart second. That was the plan.

The strategy worked, at least on the ice. Coach Alvarez noticed the difference immediately.

"Whatever you've been doing, keep it up," he told me after I led the team to a decisive victory in an important game. "That's the Ethan Wright the scouts want to see."

I nodded, accepting the praise even as I caught sight of Mia packing up her camera equipment by the boards. She didn't look my way.

The night before the semifinals, the hockey house was packed for the traditional pre-game party. As team captain, I had to make an appearance, though I planned to stay only an hour—just long enough to boost team morale before heading home for a good night's sleep.

When I arrived, the house was already packed—music was pumping, and red cups were scattered everywhere. I made my rounds: checked in with my teammates, accepted their congratulations on our season, and assured everyone we’d reach the finals.

I was counting the minutes until I could slip out when I spotted her across the room. Mia was by the staircase, camera in hand as always, taking candid shots of the celebration. She wore a simple green top that made her eyes look even more striking than usual. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

My chest tightened with a familiar ache. God, I'd missed her. The realization hit me like a body check I hadn't braced for.

Our eyes met across the crowded room, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the party, the semifinals, the scouts. Just Mia, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

I started toward her, no clear plan in mind except that I suddenly needed to talk to her, to explain, to see if I could undo some of the damage I'd caused this past week.

"Ethan! There you are!"

A hand caught my arm, halting my progress. I turned to find Vanessa beside me, a drink sloshing dangerously in her hand. Her eyes were too bright, her smile too wide—she'd clearly had a few.

"Vanessa. Hi." I tried to disengage my arm, but her grip tightened.

"I've been looking for you," she slurred slightly. "We need to talk."

"Now's not really a good time," I said, glancing back toward Mia, who was watching us with a carefully neutral expression.

"It's about your girlfriend," Vanessa continued, putting air quotes around the word 'girlfriend' with her free hand. "I've been watching you two. Something's off."

I tensed. "Nothing's off. We're fine."

"Are you? Because you've barely spoken to her all week." Vanessa's voice grew louder, drawing attention from nearby partygoers. "In fact, you've been avoiding her like she has the plague."

I tried to keep my voice calm and quiet. "Vanessa, I appreciate your concern, but Mia and I are fine. I've just been focused on the semifinals."

"No," she insisted, her volume increasing further. "You're not fine. You're faking it. You've been faking it this whole time, haven't you?"

The conversations around us began to dim as people tuned in to our exchange. I could feel eyes turning toward us, ears straining to catch the drama.

"That's ridiculous," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

Vanessa sensed weakness and pounced. "It is, isn't it? The timing was too convenient. Right when I was thinking of giving us another chance, suddenly you're dating the girl you were fighting with at practice?" She laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Come on, Ethan. Was it all just to make me jealous? To keep me away?"

The room had gone quiet now, dozens of eyes watching us. I glanced around, spotting Dylan by the doorway, his expression alarmed. Tyler stood near the kitchen, wincing as if watching a train wreck in slow motion.

And Mia—Mia stood frozen, her camera lowered, waiting for my response.

This was my moment to shut Vanessa down completely. To laugh off her accusation, cross the room to Mia, put my arm around her, and kiss her like I meant it. Like I had on the ski trip.

But I hesitated.

Maybe it was the pressure of the semifinals and Championship looming over me. Maybe it was the weight of my father's expectations. Maybe it was simple cowardice. Whatever the reason, I hesitated just a fraction too long.

And in that hesitation, I saw Mia's expression change. Something shuttered in her eyes, a door closing. Without a word, she turned and headed for the front door.

"Mia, wait!" I finally found my voice, pushing past Vanessa. "It's not—"

But she was already gone, the front door swinging closed behind her.

I followed, ignoring Vanessa's continued commentary behind me. By the time I reached the front yard, there was no sign of Mia. I pulled out my phone and began texting frantically.

Mia, I can explain.

It's not what you think.

Please call me.

Nothing.

I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. "Mia, it's me. Look, what Vanessa was saying—it's not true. I mean, yes, it started that way, but things changed. I changed. Please call me back."

I sank down onto the front steps, head in my hands. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. Everything was falling apart, and the semifinals was less than twenty-four hours away.

I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually, I felt someone settle beside me on the steps.

"So," Dylan said, handing me a beer, "that could have gone better."

I took the beer but didn't drink it. "I really messed up, didn't I?"

"On a scale of one to catastrophic? Yeah, pretty high up there." Dylan took a swig from his own bottle. "Why didn't you just tell Vanessa to shove it?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I froze. With everyone watching, and the semifinals tomorrow, and..." I trailed off, the excuses sounding hollow even to my own ears.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the bass from the party thumping behind us.

"You know what you need to do, right?" Dylan finally said.

“I do,” I replied, but my voice wavered. “But maybe it’s too late.”

He shook his head. “It’s never too late.”

I exhaled, exhausted by the complex situation I was in.

Dylan stood up and offered his hand. “Well, whatever happens, let’s head home first. Big day tomorrow—gotta focus on the game.”

I took one last look at my phone—no response from Mia—before following Dylan to his Jeep, the weight of the semifinals suddenly sharing space with the much heavier burden of regret.