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I was absolutely nailing practice. Every pass connected with laser precision, every shot found its target, every defensive maneuver executed exactly as Coach had diagrammed. I could feel the Pittsburgh scout watching from the stands, and for once, the pressure was fueling me rather than weighing me down.

This was my moment. This was what I'd been working toward since I was five years old, wobbling on my first pair of skates while my father barked instructions from the sidelines. All those years, all those early mornings, all those sacrifices—they were about to pay off.

I gathered our forward line to demonstrate a new passing sequence, hyperaware of the scout's notebook and pen. Just as I was about to start the drill, a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye.

Someone was on the ice. Not a player—a girl in regular shoes, clutching a camera, looking horrified as she started to slip.

Direct collision course with my demonstration. With the scout watching.

I swerved hard, overcompensated, lost my edge, and went careening into the boards with a bone-jarring impact that knocked the wind from my lungs. The crash echoed through the arena, followed by a moment of complete silence.

Pain radiated through my shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the hot wave of embarrassment and anger that surged through me. I pulled myself up, vaguely aware of Coach Alvarez blowing his whistle to stop practice.

The woman was standing frozen at the edge of the ice, still clutching her camera like it was a lifeline. I skated over, my temper barely in check.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded, voice sharper than the blades on my skates.

Instead of apologizing, she clutched her camera protectively to her chest, like I was the threat here. "I—I didn't realize—"

"You didn't realize the ice rink was made of ice? You didn't realize that walking onto an active practice in street shoes might be dangerous? You didn't realize you could have ruined my entire career with your stupidity?"

Her shock morphed rapidly into indignation. "Excuse me?"

"No, I won't excuse you," I snapped, acutely aware that every eye in the arena was on us, including the scout's. "Do you have any idea what's at stake here? That was a Pittsburgh scout watching me crash into the boards because you couldn't stay where you belonged!"

Her eyes—large, brown, and now flashing with anger—narrowed. "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt the great Ethan Wright's path to glory. Heaven forbid anything interfere with your divine right to NHL stardom."

I blinked, taken aback by the direct hit. "You know who I am?"

"Everyone knows who you are," she shot back. "It's impossible to miss when your name is plastered across campus like you're some kind of god instead of just a guy who's good at hitting a piece of rubber with a stick."

I felt my teammates edging closer, no doubt enjoying the spectacle. My ears burned, but I was too angry to back down.

"At least I know what I'm doing on the ice," I retorted. "Unlike some people who can't even grasp the basic concept that ice is slippery."

"And at least I don't think the entire world revolves around me and my precious hockey career." She took a step closer, apparently unconcerned that I towered over her. "News flash, Wright: One disrupted drill isn't going to destroy your future unless you're a lot less talented than everyone seems to think."

That stung more than it should have. "You have no idea what you're talking about. One mistake absolutely can cost everything. One moment of someone else's carelessness can end years of work." I was thinking of my father's career-ending injury, but she couldn't know that.

"So dramatic," she muttered, though I caught a flicker of something—uncertainty? regret?—in her eyes. "Look, I didn't mean to step on the ice. I was trying to get a better angle for the photo."

"Well, congratulations. You got your action shot of me crashing into the boards. Hope it was worth it."

"It might be my cover shot," she fired back, a hint of a challenging smile playing at the corners of her mouth despite her anger. "I'm thinking of captioning it 'Ego Check: Star Player Meets Gravity.'"

I opened my mouth to retort, but Coach Alvarez's voice cut through the tension.

"That's enough!" He skated between us, face set in his signature scowl. "Wright, back to the team. Now." He turned to the woman. "Ms. Navarro, I presume? The new photographer from the paper?"

She nodded, composure returning. "Mia Navarro, yes. I apologize for the disruption, Coach."

"Photography position is in the stands, Ms. Navarro. Not on the ice." Coach's tone was stern but not unkind. "Tyler will show you where you can set up safely."

Tyler, ever the diplomat, skated over with a friendly smile. "No problem, Coach. This way, Mia."

As they walked away, Coach turned to me with a much less friendly expression. "My office. After practice."

"But Coach—"

"Not a request, Wright."

The rest of practice was a disaster. My concentration was shattered, my rhythm disrupted. I could feel the scout's eyes on me, evaluating not just my recovery from the physical stumble but the way I'd lost my temper. Coach ran us through drill after punishing drill, and I pushed myself to the limit trying to erase the earlier mishap with perfect execution.

I deliberately avoided looking toward the stands, where I knew Mia, the photographer was capturing every moment of my struggle. My shoulder throbbed where it had hit the boards, but my pride hurt worse.

In the locker room afterward, I expected sympathy from my teammates. What I got was merciless teasing.

"Dude," Dylan said, dropping onto the bench beside me with a dramatic sigh. "That was the most entertainment I've had at practice all year."

"Shut up," I muttered, unlacing my skates with more force than necessary.

"No, seriously," he continued, undeterred. "It was like watching a nature documentary. 'Here we observe the male hockey captain in his natural habitat, suddenly confronted by a female intruder with a camera. Watch as he puffs up his chest and engages in territorial display behavior.'"

The locker room erupted in laughter. I glared at Dylan, who gave me an innocent look.

"What? I'm just saying there was definitely some... tension there."

"There was no tension," I insisted. "Just some clueless photographer who nearly got herself killed and me seriously injured."

"I don't know, Captain," Tyler chimed in, pulling off his goalie pads. "From where I was standing, there was definitely something happening between you two. And it wasn't just anger."

"Chemical reaction," Sanchez agreed, nodding sagely. "Like those volcanoes we made in sixth grade science. Just waiting to explode."

I threw my towel at him. "The only explosion is going to be my fist connecting with your face if you don't drop it."

Dylan clasped his hands to his chest. "And now the alpha male resorts to physical threats when his dominance is questioned! The drama continues!"

"I'm serious, Dylan," I warned, but he just grinned.

"So am I. That was quality entertainment." He slipped into a sports announcer voice. "Let's review the first-period action between Wright and The Photographer. Wright starts strong with an accusation of stupidity, but Navarro counters with a devastating 'entitled jock' combination that catches him off guard! Wright attempts to recover with a slippery ice reference—somewhat weak execution there—but Navarro lands a direct hit with the 'world revolves around you' uppercut!"

The team was howling now. Even I had to fight a reluctant smile.

"You're all idiots," I said, but there was no heat in it.

"Jokes aside," Dylan said, lowering his voice as the others moved on to new topics, "you might want to smooth things over with the photographer. She's going to be covering us all season, and the last thing you need is someone with a camera making you look bad to scouts."

I groaned, knowing he was right. "Fine. I'll apologize or whatever."

"That's the spirit. Really lead with that 'or whatever' part. Women love that." Dylan clapped me on the shoulder. "Look at you, being all mature and responsible."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't. I'm your best friend and your conscience, all wrapped up in one devastatingly handsome package."

Before I could respond, Tyler rejoined us, now changed into street clothes. "Hey, the photographer and her friend are waiting outside. Thought you might want to know."

I stared at him. "Why would I want to know that?"

"Because you're going to apologize?" Tyler suggested. "And because her friend is kind of cute, and I think Dylan should meet her."

Dylan perked up. "Is she the brunette who was sitting in the stands? The one taking notes?"

"That's her," Tyler confirmed. "She's a reporter for the paper."

"Perfect." Dylan grinned. "Wright needs to make nice with the photographer, and I need to charm the reporter. Two birds, one stone."

"I didn't agree to this," I protested, but they were already gathering their bags.

"Too late," Dylan said cheerfully. "Operation Public Relations is a go."

Ten minutes later, Dylan, Tyler, and I were outside the arena, approaching Mia and her friend, who were engaged in intense conversation that halted abruptly when they spotted us.

Mia's posture immediately stiffened, her hand moving protectively to the camera bag at her side. Despite myself, I noticed things I'd missed in the heat of our confrontation—the delicate line of her jaw, the determined set of her chin, the way her dark hair fell in waves around her face. She was actually quite pretty, in a fierce, challenging way.

I shoved that observation firmly aside.

"Hey," I said, my voice gruffer than I'd intended.

"Hey yourself," she replied, wariness evident in her tone.

A hush settled over the group, but Dylan—never one to let silence win—stepped forward, flashing an easy smile.

“Clearly we need proper introductions,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dylan Parker—defenseman and Ethan Wright’s far more approachable roommate. That quiet type next to me is Tyler, our goalie.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow before taking his hand. “Olivia Martinez—campus reporter and Mia’s equally charming roommate. And you’ve met the incomparable Mia yourself.”

Dylan’s grin widened. “Well then, looks like we’re already on common ground.”

Olivia looked unimpressed. "Yes, our taste in friends is equally questionable."

"Ouch." Dylan clutched his chest. "And here I thought we were having a moment."

"The moment has passed," Olivia said dryly, but I caught the hint of a smile she tried to suppress.

Another silence fell, more awkward than the first. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to remember what a proper apology sounded like. Before I could figure it out, Dylan jumped in again.

"So, we were thinking of heading to Brewed Sunshine for coffee—to properly welcome you to the world of Wolves hockey coverage. Would you like to join us?”

"We actually have class—" Mia began, but Olivia cut her off.

"We'd love to." She ignored Mia's glare. "I have some questions about the team for my article anyway."

Dylan beamed. "Perfect! Lead the way, Tyler."

The walk to the campus coffee shop was excruciating. Dylan and Olivia walked ahead, already engaged in animated conversation that occasionally erupted into laughter. Tyler meandered alongside them, occasionally contributing to their discussion. Which left me walking next to Mia, both of us maintaining a careful foot of space between us.

"So," I finally said, desperate to break the suffocating silence. "You're the new photographer."

She glanced at me sideways. "Brilliant observation."

I bit back a retort. This was supposed to be a peace offering, not round two. "I meant, you're replacing Jake."

"Yes. He broke his leg."

"Skateboarding incident. I heard."

She nodded. Another painful silence.

"Look," I finally said, "about what happened at practice—"

"You don't need to apologize," she interrupted. "I shouldn't have been on the ice. It was stupid and dangerous, and I know better now."

Her admission caught me off guard. "Oh. Well. Good."

"But," she continued, her tone sharpening, "you didn't need to be such a jerk about it. I didn't do it on purpose."

And just like that, my temper flared again. "A jerk? I was protecting myself and my team. Do you have any idea what an injury could mean for my career?"

"There you go again with the career drama," she sighed. "Is everything always so life-or-death with you?"

"In hockey? Yes. One wrong move, one bad hit—it can end everything." I didn't know why I was telling her this, but the words tumbled out anyway. "My father's NHL career ended with a single bad check that destroyed his knee. Years of work, gone in seconds."

Something in her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry about your father. But that's not what happened today. You're fine."

"I was lucky," I muttered. "And so were you. Hockey is dangerous, especially if you don't know what you're doing."

"I get it," she said, and surprisingly, her voice lacked the earlier antagonism. "I'll stay off the ice. But maybe next time, try explaining that without assuming I'm an idiot who deliberately tried to sabotage your precious practice."

I almost smiled at her directness. "Fair enough. And maybe next time, try not walking on ice in regular shoes."

"Deal." She extended her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, I shook it. Her hand was smaller than mine but her grip was firm. "Professional boundaries established. You stay in your lane, I'll stay in mine."

"Agreed."

By then, we'd reached Brewed Sunshine , the popular campus coffee shop that was perpetually crowded with students. Dylan somehow managed to snag a corner table, and soon we were all seated with our drinks—black coffee for me, some complicated iced concoction for Dylan, tea for Tyler, and I didn't catch what Mia and Olivia ordered.

The conversation was stilted at first, but Dylan, as always, filled any awkward silences with his particular brand of charming nonsense. He was in the middle of a story about our freshman year disaster involving the dorm's fire alarm and an ill-advised attempt at making nachos at 2 AM when Olivia interrupted.

"So, I'm working on an article about academic privileges for athletes," she said, pulling out a small notebook. "I'd love to get your perspectives. Do you think professors give athletes special treatment?"

The table went silent. Dylan's expression shifted from relaxed to guarded. "What kind of 'special treatment' are we talking about?"

Olivia shrugged. "Extended deadlines, relaxed attendance policies, grade inflation. The usual suspects."

I exchanged glances with Tyler. This was dangerous territory.

"I think," Dylan said carefully, "that professors recognize that student-athletes balance demanding schedules that include training, travel, and competition on top of full course loads."

"So that's a yes," Olivia concluded, jotting something in her notebook.

Dylan frowned. "No, that's a recognition of reality. Most of us practice twenty hours a week, travel for away games, and still maintain the same academic requirements as every other student."

"With additional help and accommodations," Olivia pointed out.

"With reasonable adjustments to account for university-sanctioned activities," Dylan countered. "The same way a student in the orchestra might get flexibility for a concert, or a student government representative might for a conference."

Dylan, normally so laid-back, was visibly irritated—a rare sight. I understood why: his academic scholarship required him to maintain a 3.8 GPA while playing Division I hockey. He studied more hours than anyone I knew, still hunched over textbooks when I went to bed and already at it again when I woke up.

"Are you familiar with the graduation rates for student-athletes compared to the general student population?" Dylan asked, his voice taking on the formal tone he used for class debates.

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."

"They're higher," Dylan said firmly. "At this university, athletes graduate at a 94% rate compared to 87% for non-athletes. We have mandatory study halls, academic advisors who track our progress weekly, and GPA requirements to remain eligible for competition."

"Statistics can be manipulated," Olivia challenged. "And those resources you mentioned aren't available to regular students."

"Because regular students aren't trying to fit a full-time athletic career into their college experience," Dylan replied, clearly frustrated. "Look, I maintain a 3.8 GPA in Political Science while playing hockey at a nationally competitive level. I'm not asking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that my circumstances require some flexibility."

Olivia looked genuinely surprised. "A 3.8 in PoliSci? While playing hockey?"

"Yes." Dylan crossed his arms. "Did that not fit your 'dumb jock' narrative for your exposé?"

"It's not an exposé," Olivia protested, though her expression suggested otherwise. "It's an investigative piece on academic integrity."

"Using athletes as your convenient villains," Dylan shot back.

"I'm following the evidence to its logical conclusion," Olivia insisted.

"You're starting with a conclusion and seeking evidence to support it," Dylan corrected. "That's not journalism; that's confirmation bias. I believe that violates the basic rules of journalistic integrity, though I'm not an expert in your field." He deliberately used journalism terminology, though I could tell he was just tossing out phrases he'd probably heard in a class once.

Olivia's eyes narrowed. "And I believe you're about to get crosschecked into the penalty zone for unsportsmanlike conduct in this discussion." She used hockey terms with similar inaccuracy, clearly trying to beat him at his own game.

Tyler choked on his tea, trying to suppress a laugh. I glanced at Mia and found her watching the exchange with the same bewildered amusement I felt. Our eyes met briefly, and I could have sworn I saw the corner of her mouth quirk up in a smile before she quickly looked away.

"Penalty box," Dylan corrected automatically. "And crosschecking usually gets you two minutes, not a match penalty, unless it's particularly egregious."

"Fine," Olivia conceded. "You get a two-minute time-out in the penalty container for excessive mansplaining."

Even I had to bite back a laugh at that one. Dylan looked momentarily stunned, then broke into a reluctant grin.

"Touché, Martinez." He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Though I maintain that your article premise is flawed."

"Noted, Parker." She returned the gesture with her own cup. "Though I maintain that my journalistic instincts are sound."

The tension dissipated, replaced by a strange kind of combative respect between them. Mia caught my eye again, and this time she did smile—a small, wry expression that somehow made me feel like we were sharing a private joke about our ridiculous friends.

The moment was broken by the buzz of my phone. Coach Alvarez's name flashed on the screen, and my stomach dropped. I'd completely forgotten about his summons to his office after practice.

"I need to go," I said, standing abruptly. "Coach wants to see me."

Dylan gave me a sympathetic look. "Good luck, man. Want me to wait?"

"No, I'll meet you back at the apartment." I hesitated, then nodded to the group. "Thanks for the coffee."

My gaze lingered on Mia for a moment longer than necessary. "See you at practice, I guess. Just... stay off the ice."

"No promises," she replied, but there was a teasing note in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Try not to crash into the boards next time. It ruins my composition."

I almost smiled despite the dread pooling in my stomach. "I'll do my best."

Coach Alvarez was not happy. He sat behind his desk, arms crossed, expression grim as I entered his office.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sat, bracing myself for the lecture I knew was coming.

"So," Coach began, "want to explain what happened out there today?"

"The photographer stepped onto the ice, I had to swerve to avoid her, and I lost my edge," I said carefully. "It was just bad luck."

"I'm not talking about the fall," Coach said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I'm talking about the scene afterward. The one where my team captain, the player who's supposed to exemplify leadership and maturity, publicly berated someone in front of an NHL scout."

I winced. Put that way, it sounded pretty bad.

"She could have caused a serious accident," I began, but Coach cut me off.

"She made a mistake. A rookie mistake by someone who probably knows nothing about hockey. You, on the other hand, made a choice to lose your temper."

I stared at the floor, embarrassment burning through me.

"The scout noticed," Coach continued relentlessly. "In fact, it was the first thing he mentioned when I spoke to him after practice. Not your excellent drilling before the incident, not your recovery afterward. Your temper."

My heart sank. "Coach, I—"

"Let me be crystal clear, Wright. The Pittsburgh Seals aren't just looking for a player with a good shot and quick feet. They want someone who can represent their organization with professionalism. Someone who can handle pressure without cracking. Someone who demonstrates leadership and character both on and off the ice."

Each word hit like a physical blow. I'd screwed up, and I knew it.

"The scout wasn't impressed?" I asked, my voice smaller than I'd like.

Coach's expression softened slightly. "He wasn't unimpressed with your playing. You're still one of the best prospects he's scouting this season. But he did express concern about your... emotional control."

I nodded, accepting the criticism. "It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Coach leaned forward.

"I understand, Coach. I'll work on it," I promised.

Coach studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Because from now on, your character is being scouted just as much as your slapshot. Remember that."

"Yes, Coach."

"Alright then." He stood, signaling the end of our meeting. "Go ice that shoulder. And Wright?"

"Yeah?"

"Make peace with the photographer. She's going to be around all season, and I don't need any more drama in my rink."

"Already handled," I assured him, relieved to have at least one piece of good news. "We've established... professional boundaries."

Coach snorted. "Professional boundaries. Well, that's a start. Now go get some rest. Tomorrow's practice is going to make today's look like a warm-up."

As I left Coach's office, his words echoed in my mind. Character. Professionalism. Leadership. All the qualities that went beyond mere hockey skill—the qualities that would determine whether I made it to the next level or became just another talented player who never quite reached his potential.

Somehow, infuriatingly, the image that kept coming to mind was Mia's challenging expression as she stood her ground, calling me out on my behavior. There had been something almost like respect in her eyes when we'd established our truce, something that made me unexpectedly want to earn more of it.