Page 18 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

"Is it?" He looks at me with those sharp eyes that seem to see straight through bullshit. "Because last I checked, you walked away from this girl once before to focus on hockey. Now you're back, and suddenly hockey's taking a backseat to whatever this is."

"That's not—" I start, but he holds up a hand.

" Shut it . I'm not finished."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Montreal's coming to town on Saturday," Coach continues. "They're fast, they're hungry, and they've been waiting all season for a chance to embarrass us on home ice. Don't forget, we're Stanley Cup Champions. If your head's anywhere but in this game, they're going to eat us alive."

The weight of his words settles on my shoulders like lead. He's right, and we both know it. This team, these guys who've become like brothers to me, they don't deserve to lose because I can't keep my personal life separate from my professional one.

"I'm not going to let the team down," I say quietly.

"Good. Because I'd hate to have to make an example out of our most promising rookie.

" The threat is delivered mildly, but there's no mistaking the steel behind it.

"And Scott? Whatever's going on with this charity event, whatever grand gesture you're planning, it better not interfere with game day preparation. "

Fuck.

"It won't," I promise. "Saturday night is about hockey first. Everything else is secondary."

Coach studies my face for a long moment, looking for any sign of doubt or distraction. Finally, he nods.

"Good. Now get back out there and show me you remember how to play hockey. And Scott?"

"Yes, Coach?"

"You've got talent, kid. Real talent. Don't waste it chasing second chances that don't exist."

The next hour and a half is pure torture.

Coach runs us through every system in our playbook, then makes us run them again. And again. Every time someone misses an assignment or takes a lazy stride, he blows the whistle and we start over.

My legs are screaming by the time he finally calls an end to practice. My lungs burn from sucking in cold arena air at full throttle for ninety minutes straight. Even my hands ache from gripping my stick so tight I'm surprised I didn't snap it in half.

"Alright, ladies. SUICIDES!" Coach bellows just as we're all thinking we might actually escape. "Baseline to blue line and back. Blue line to red line and back. Red line to far blue line and back. Far blue line to far baseline and back. GO!"

I want to die.

Actually, literally want to cease existing rather than force my already-protesting legs through another set of conditioning drills.

But I go. We all go. Because that's what you do when Coach says jump.

By the time he finally blows the whistle to end practice, I'm seeing spots. My jersey is soaked with sweat despite the frigid arena air, and my legs feel like they're made of overcooked spaghetti.

"Congratulations. That's what focused hockey looks like, gentlemen," Coach announces as we gather around him, everyone trying not to look like they're about to collapse.

"It took us all week, but that's exactly what I want to see on Saturday.

Montreal thinks they can come into our house and push us around. Let's show them they're wrong."

The locker room is quieter than usual as we strip off gear and head for showers. Everyone's too exhausted for the usual post-practice bullshitting.

I sit in front of my locker, slowly peeling off layers of equipment that feel like they've been welded to my body. My phone sits in my gear bag, probably full of texts and missed calls, but right now I'm too wiped out to care.

This is what Coach was talking about. This is what happens when you let distractions take over.

But even as I acknowledge the truth of it, I can't bring myself to regret last night. Can't bring myself to regret the way Mia felt in my arms or the soft sound she made when I kissed her awake this morning.

Some things are worth fighting for. Worth the risk.

I just have to figure out how to balance both. Make Saturday's event amazing for Mia, and play my heart out.

I'm toweling off my hair when my phone finally buzzes with a text. Half expecting Coach with some additional punishment or reminder about reviewing game tapes when we get home, I'm surprised to see Mia's name.

Thanks for breakfast. And for... everything else last night. Sorry if I made it weird. See you tonight? - Mia.

Despite my exhaustion, despite Coach's warning, despite every rational thought in my head telling me to focus on hockey, a grin spreads across my face.

This is going to work.

I pull up her text again, reading between the lines. The way she thanked me for "everything else" last night. The apology for making it weird this morning when I dropped her off. I could see it all over her face in the parking lot—her mind racing with questions she was too afraid to ask.

Eight years of hurt don't disappear overnight, no matter how perfect last night was. I know that.

But she's reaching out. She's thinking about me.

Coach might be right about hockey, but I also know some battles are worth fighting twice as hard for.

Because losing Mia again isn't an option. Not when I finally know what it feels like to have her back in my arms.

Not when I can finally see a future that includes more than just hockey.

I type back: Wouldn't miss it.

I grab my gear bag and head for the parking lot, already planning my next move. I should go home, rest up for tomorrow's final tactical planning session in the Player's Lounge, maybe work on the kitchen renovation I've been putting off.

Instead, I'm already mentally mapping the fastest route to Tails & Paws.

Some things are worth the risk.

Some things are worth everything.