Page 2

Luka

M y skates slice into the ice at an unforgiving speed. My calves burn from exertion, and my heart rate is elevated. I spin around and hear the slight clink of the puck as it hits my stick. My arms pull back, and in a split second I’m sending the puck down the rink. It sails past the guys who are supposed to stop it and into the open corner of the net.

There’s no crowd to cheer or buzzer to go off, but it still feels just as good to make the shot. I smile and tip my helmet back briefly to wipe sweat from my forehead as the next group lines up for the cut-and-drop warm-up.

I skate past Nash Dawson, our goalie. “Damn, dude, that was a clean shot. It won’t get past me again, though.”

I knock my gloved hand against his helmet. “I know it won’t, I have to work hard to keep you on your toes.”

He smirks, crouching to line up for the next group running the drill. I make my way behind the goal and toward the other end of the rink, where some of the guys are doing low-intensity skating and stickhandling for a cooldown. Practice is almost over. It felt like most of the guys were out for blood today, which is a damn good way to be.

I feel it in my bones that this is the year we’ll make it all the way.

“Russo comes up from behind, cuts to the left, jabs to the right, and speeds toward the goalie with precision. His speed is unmatched. His shots are untouched. He’s magnificent . He’ll go down in hockey history as the best there ever was,” Rowan coos next to me in a fake ass announcer voice.

I reach out and shove him with a laugh. “Shut the hell up, man. It’s not that serious.”

“The crowd goes wild. The hockey gods stand and applaud. Russo’s done it again! He pulled a win for the team out of his ass.” Rowan fake shouts, continuing to play up practice like he’s a sports announcer and I’m a famous hockey player as we toss the puck back and forth.

He pretends to shove a microphone in my face. “How are you going to celebrate this win, Luka Russo? Take some ladies out on the town? Go party with your teammates? Or wait, I know. You’re going to Disney World!”

His antics have me cracking up, but that’s Rowan Pierce for you. He’s the team captain and one hell of a good friend. He’s also a smartass.

We both started as freshmen at Hart University in Massachusetts, and we’ve been pretty damn close since day one. He finally made captain for our senior year, and I’m happy for him. He’s damn good at it.

I’ve never wanted to be captain. I tell Rowan all the time that he’s our resident babysitter, but that’s the kind of shit he enjoys. Not me, though. I want to play, not fuss over a bunch of grown-ass men who act more like babies most of the time.

Rowan’s perfect for it. He knows everything there is to know about each and every player on the team. He knows all their mommas’ names, if they’re seeing someone or have a girlfriend, and what their favorite fucking snack is. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it, but more power to him.

The team loves him, which is exactly what we need because last year’s captain was a Grade-A fucker. It’s one of the major reasons we didn’t make it to the semifinals. We didn’t play as a team because half of us supported the captain, while the other half of us hated his guts. That kind of thing can completely divide the team and destroy the work ethic. Thankfully, he graduated last year.

This year will be different, though. This year will be my year. This is my last shot to make it to the championship and, hopefully, in front of NHL scouts. Being drafted is my ultimate goal and has been since I was a little boy .

The Kings are a Division I hockey team and should have made it to the championships already. Unfortunately, we fell short all three years I’ve been here to take home the big trophy.

That changes this year.

Coach calls us in for a huddle before we hit the showers. Rowan and I skate over, stopping just off to the side of Coach while the other guys file in.

“I liked what I saw, but we still have a lot of room for improvement if we want that gold this year. This isn’t the time to slack off or fool around. Remember to stay focused. I don’t want to hear about any of you fools getting into trouble with the party coming up this weekend. Am I clear?”

There’s a chorus of yes, sir across the rink as Coach cuts his eyes to a few of the players he has the most trouble with. That particular bunch is always out partying late and drinking too much to come into practice the next day and actually be worth a damn to the team.

He nods his head in dismissal, but as I turn to leave for the showers, I hear my name. “Russo, meet me in my office in ten.” The command is low and gruff.

What in the hell is it now?

I nod briefly to acknowledge I heard him.

Rowan leans in towards me. “I thought you got your grades up over the summer.”

“I did . I’m passing,” I say in frustration. Getting griped at about grades is usually the only reason I get called to the coach’s office.

“Then why the hell does he want to see you? He does not look fucking happy.”

We skate toward the exit at the side of the ice rink.

I sigh. “I don’t know, dude. I did what they asked. Your guess is as good as mine.”

A knot of dread forms low in my gut as we both head for the showers. I don’t know what else Coach would need to talk to me about, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

After hurrying through my shower and getting ready in a swift eight minutes, I rush toward Coach’s office. I pull open the locker door and make my way down the long hallway to the last office on the right. I can tell I’m moving quickly and making good time, but that doesn’t change the fact that it feels like my feet weigh a ton.

I swallow thickly. The high from practice has faded, and now I’m left with anxiety. I have a feeling I know what this meeting will be about, and if I’m right, it’ll fucking suck.

Maybe keeping my head down and focusing on grades wasn’t enough to save me from the fate I’ve been avoiding like the damn plague for over three years now. This is supposed to be my best year.

It has to be.

When I finally reach my destination, my hand squeezes into a fist at my side. I release my grip and spread my fingers wide. Some of my knuckles pop before I make another fist and knock on the door.

His deep voice sounds from the other side. “Come in.”

Here goes nothing . Hopefully, I don’t end up watching my dream blow up in my face in spectacular fashion. Hell, even if it does, I can’t blame anyone but myself.

I push the door open and step inside. He’s sitting behind a desk topped with papers scattered in all directions and a computer screen that isn’t on. Coach doesn’t really like electronics. He says you lose too much of a personal connection when all you do is hide behind a screen. Can’t say I disagree.

Coach Cunningham is old school, and it’s one of the many things I like about him—that and the fact that he’s fought tooth and nail to keep me here.

“Close the door behind you, Russo,” he says as he takes his readers off and places them on top of the stack of papers .

I do as he says and turn around to take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I know the routine. I’ve had countless meetings with Coach over the past three years.

“How do you feel your summer classes went?” he asks, getting straight to the point.

That’s another thing I really like about Coach. He doesn’t bullshit.

“I still struggled, but I was able to pull off a solid C in most of them. I’m hoping it was enough to get the administration off my back.”

He leans back in his chair and sighs regretfully. “I was too, kid, but I got an email this morning saying you need to get your GPA up to a 2.5. The summer classes helped bring it up some, but it wasn’t enough.”

I swallow. My palms grow sweaty, and my heart rate kicks up in my chest, but I don’t outwardly show how much that one sentence affects me. What the fuck more do they want from me?! I’m so tired of having to jump through hoops just to play.

When I remain quiet, he continues, “Do you know what this means?”

I simply nod because there’s nothing else to say. I know exactly what it means. All the work I’ve done—all the sacrifices—still weren’t good enough. My shot at winning an NCAA championship during my college career and potentially getting drafted in the NHL is officially threatened.

He closes his eyes and leans forward on the desk, threading his fingers together under his chin. Coach is in his mid-sixties with graying hair, a trim beard, and a slight belly that seems to get bigger as he ages. I highly respect him, and I love that he’s tough but fair.

Which makes this even harder because I’ve let him down. I’ve also let my family down, but most of all, I’ve let myself down.

“You are the best damn player on the team, Russo. I know I shouldn’t say that. I shouldn’t have favorites, but it’s the truth.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” That’s all I can think of because I’m fuming mad right now. My GPA may not be high, but it’s passing. What more do they want from me ?

Coach’s expression grows even more serious. “You need to figure out a way to get it up and do it fast. The team needs you, and the administration is done being lenient.”

I sit up taller in my seat and lean forward when his voice dropped to a low grumble. “What the hell else am I supposed to do, Coach? From where I’m sitting, I’ve done everything I can and everything they’ve asked of me.”

“I know, son. I’ve told them that. I’ve also told them you are invaluable to the team, but they won’t budge. You can do this. Get a tutor and buckle down for the semester. You’ve already pulled it up to a 2.2. You can bring it up even more.”

I gulp, my eyes wide as my mouth falls slightly open.

I spread my arms out wide, my voice coming out louder than I intend. “I’m sorry, but this is bullshit! I’ve had tutors and study sessions. I’ve crammed all night for tests and worked my ass off over the summer. I did all the shit I could think of, and I specifically did what they asked. I got it above 2.0, and now you’re telling me they changed their mind and want more ? What the hell, Coach?!”

His brows furrow, and he leans forward, placing his thick arms on the desk. “Don’t raise your voice at me, son! I know you’re mad, and I am too, but there’s nothing else I can do. They won’t hear it. You have until the end of November to get it to a 2.5, or I have to bench you.”

Mad doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel right now. I want to stand up and flip this desk over and punch a damn wall, but I can’t because the one thing I care about is in jeopardy right now.

“What about the semifinals?”

“You won’t be able to play if you don’t get your grades up.”

I blow out a heavy breath through my nose, and I’m shocked I didn’t see smoke. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I were, but these are the cards we’re being dealt. Figure out the problem and fix it.”

I scoff and shake my head but say nothing. If it were that easy, I would have already done it. I’ve always struggled with my studies, but I’ve managed to get by. How the hell am I supposed to get my GPA up to a damn 2.5? That question rolls over in my head long after I bite my tongue to say my goodbyes to Coach and leave his office.

He wants me to find the problem and fix it, but that is the problem. I have no idea how to fix it. If it were just based on effort alone, I would have a freaking 4.0, but it’s not.

All I know is I need to make a plan and fast . I won’t risk being unable to play.

This is my last shot, and I sure as hell intend to score.