Page 30 of The Play Maker

I stretch out on the couch. “It’s inspiring to witness true love bloom while I slowly flunk out of college.”

Ryan downs some water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thought you had a tutor?”

“Working on it,” I mutter. Technically true. I’ve agreed to let someone help—someone who barely looks at me and might ghost any minute.

Ryan raises a brow. “You gonna be ready by playoffs?”

“Planning on it.” I prop my feet up on the coffee table.

It’s been rough. Showing up to practice, knowing I won’t see a single shift. Just standing behind the bench, setting up drills, taping sticks—whatever needs doing. I joke around, stay loud in the locker room, act like I’m still part of the team.

But fuck, I miss skating.

I miss the feel of the rink under my blades, the sound of my stick cutting through a pass. The adrenaline, the noise, the rush. I miss thegame.

And if I don’t get my shit together soon, I’m terrified I’ll lose it for good.

Nathan glances up from his phone. “Don’t forget you’ve got a midterm in two weeks.”

“Awesome,” I deadpan. “Can’t wait to bomb that too.”

They laugh. I laugh, too. Or at least, I pretend to.

I’m good at making people laugh, at being the dumb one who they chuckle at and shake their heads—so I do just that. Keep the jokes coming, keep the noise up. If I play my role right, nobody notices the cracks.

But underneath… It stings.

I make jokes about dropping out like it’s some kind of punchline. Like I’m not waking up every day with that fear curled tight in my chest.

Because it’s not funny. It’s fucking terrifying.

I’m not here because my parents made a generous alumni donation. I don’t have a safety net or a plan B. Hockeyisthe plan. My full ride is the only reason I’m here at all. If I screw this up—if I don’t get drafted—then my mom keeps scrubbing floors at that fancy prep school for rich kids who never have to worry about their futures. And Scarlett? She’ll start to believe college is just a dream for kids with better dads and deeper pockets.

So yeah, I joke. It’s easier than saying I’m scared shitless I’ll never be enough.

Because if I blow this—if I don’t turn it around—I’m not just letting myself down.

I’m letting them down. My mom. Scarlett. Everyone who’s ever believed I could make it.

And I don’t know how many more chances I get before that belief runs out.

“I’m heading up,” I say, pushing off the couch with a grunt.

Ryan eyes me. “Got a hot date with your pillow?”

Logan lets out a scoff, scarfing down chips. “With his right hand, more like.”

I grin, tossing him a look. “Hey, at least my right hand never bails on me.”

They chuckle behind me as I head up the stairs.

I push the door open and let it slam shut behind me. I toss my backpack on the floor and reach under the bed for my guitar.

I flop down onto my bed, running my hands over it. It’s beat-up, the wood worn smooth in spots, strings a little dull, but it’s still the best thing I own.

I tune it by ear, my fingers moving on instinct, until the sound feels right.

I don’t play for anyone. Not at parties. Not for the guys. Definitely not online.