Page 5

"If your head isn't in this practice, you can watch from the bench!"

"My head's in it," I argue, circling back into position.

But it's not, and everyone can tell.

I miss two simple passes, crash into Ryan during a drill, and nearly take Kellan's head off with a wild slap shot.

To make matters worse, there's a guy in a suit watching from the stands.

Unmistakably a scout. Clipboard and all.

Great timing, Sullivan.

"What's with you today?" Kellan asks during a water break. "You look like you're playing underwater."

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Bullshit. Is it the podcast thing?"

"Nah, man. Just tired. Murphy's morning workout was brutal."

Kellan gives me his captain look—the one that says he knows I'm full of it but is deciding whether to call me out.

"The scout's from Philadelphia," he says instead. "Watching you specifically, according to Coach."

My stomach drops. "Seriously? Today of all days?"

"Maybe it'll motivate you to stop daydreaming about whatever's got you so distracted."

I'm about to protest when a commotion breaks out on the ice.

One of the freshmen defensemen, Miller, is shoving Johnson from the second line.

Before I can process what's happening, gloves are dropped and they're throwing punches.

Coach's whistle shrieks through the air. "Break it up! Now!"

I skate over out of instinct, pulling Miller back while Kellan grabs Johnson. Miller struggles against my grip.

"He slashed me on purpose!" Miller shouts.

"Did not, you paranoid freak!" Johnson lunges forward.

Their sticks clash between us, and somehow, I end up with Johnson's stick catching me square in the face. Pain explodes across my cheekbone.

"Shit!" I let go of Miller, who immediately takes advantage and throws another punch.

Now everyone's involved, a tangle of hockey gear and testosterone.

I spot the scout standing up in the bleachers, looking concerned.

Perfect. Just goddamned wonderful.

Coach Murphy's face swells to twice its normal size.

"ENOUGH!" he roars, physically inserting himself into the fray. "Sullivan, Marks, Martinez, Watson—lap drills! The rest of you, suicide sprints! NOW!"

For the next forty-five minutes, we're run ragged—skating until my legs feel like they'll detach from my body.

By the time practice ends, I'm sweating through every layer, sporting what promises to be an impressive black eye, and thoroughly chastised.

"Sullivan," Coach calls as we head to the locker room. "A word."

Kellan shoots me a sympathetic look as I skate over.

"What the hell was that?" Coach demands once the others are out of earshot.

"Sorry, Coach. I got distracted trying to break it up and?—"

"Not just the fight. The entire practice. You've been a mess." He glances toward the now-empty stands. "That was Phil Jameson watching. Philadelphia's interested in you for next season, but not if you play like you did today."

“I know. I screwed up.”

"Is this about that radio show? Rocket mentioned something about you and his sister."

"No!" I say too quickly. Then calmer: “No, It’s not. It was just a one-time thing. Won't happen again."

Coach studies me, shoulders squaring. "Look, Sullivan. You're one of my best defensemen when your head's in the game. Whatever's going on…fix it before Brampton. We need you focused."

"Yes, sir."

In the locker room, the team is unusually subdued, everyone nursing bruises from practice and Coach's verbal lashing.

Ryan tosses me an ice pack for my eye.

"Nice shiner," he comments. "Very tough guy."

Pressing the cold pack to my face with a wince. “Your concern is duly noted.”

Kellan sits down beside me. "Want to tell me what's really going on? And don't say nothing."

I sigh, lowering my voice. "It's stupid. I keep thinking about that podcast."

"The one with Rocket's sister?"

"Yeah. The station manager wants us to continue, and..." I trail off, not sure how to explain the strange pull I felt arguing with Piper, the electricity of our debate.

"And you're considering it?" Kellan asks, eyebrows raised.

"Maybe? I don't know. It was weirdly fun, and it would look good for scouts if I have interests beyond hockey."

Ryan plops down on my other side, uninvited as usual. "You know she's been like this forever, right? When we were twelve, she made Derek and me practice for a neighborhood baseball game using statistics and probability charts."

"Seriously?"

"Hand to God. She's brilliant, but a fucking handful. Derek almost failed algebra that year because she took over tutoring him and made him solve for x until three in the morning."

Kellan lobs me a look. "Doesn't sound like your type, Sullivan."

"I didn't say I was interested in her, NumbNuts. Just the podcast."

"Sure," they say in unison.

I look between them, then at my swollen eye in the mirror across the locker room.

Maybe they’re right. What the hell am I thinking?

Between hockey, classes I'm barely passing, and trying to impress scouts, the last thing I need is to get tangled up with Derek's spreadsheet-obsessed sister on a relationship podcast that directly contradicts my entire approach to life.

No matter how fascinating her brown eyes get when she's arguing statistics.

"You guys got it right," I say finally. "It's a bad idea. I'll tell the station no."

Ryan claps my shoulder. "Good man. Besides, could you imagine the color Derek would turn if you and Piper actually got along?"

"Somewhere between plum and eggplant," Kellan suggests.

"With hints of burgundy," I add

We all laugh, and it’s decided right then and there.

I'll focus on hockey.

And in the meantime, keep an ocean’s worth of space between me, Piper Thompson and her infuriating way of using logic for every little thing.

How hard could that be?