Sleep might have helped me find reason today. Only, I didn’t get any. I spent my morning workout just as pent-up, and now I’m laying here on this bench, rubbing my eyes raw, my cheekbones still bruised and tender from the beating they took two days ago, my heart bruised from the one it took yesterday.

“Better sit up, Harp. Coach is coming,” Trent says, throwing his wet towel on my chest. I don’t even fight back, letting it drench my shirt and make me feel as miserable on the outside as I do in.

“Your ass better not be hung over,” Coach Bishop says, pushing my legs from the bench as he walks by, knocking me off balance. He’s the only one on the team who can legitimately kick my ass, even at my scrappiest. I stumble from my resting place and follow him through the lockers to his office, throwing the towel over Trent’s shoulders as I pass him.

“Fuck ass!” he yells, shrugging it from his now-wet shirt and shoulders.

“You started it,” I chuckle.

“What are you, fucking twelve?” Coach grunts as I turn my attention back to him in his office. “Go on, close the goddamn door.”

I do as he says and take my seat. Bishop is one of the country’s best college hockey coaches. His NHL career was mediocre, a starter for the Stars and Sharks for a few years, but traded around the country year after year until he finally gave up. He slid into the job at Tech as a favor owed to him by a friend, but he’s stayed for a decade thanks to his two hundred wins and forty-six losses.

“What’s with your face?” he asks, pulling the toothpick from his lips and using it to point at me. He has this permanent scowl and crinkle around his eyes that makes him look like Popeye.

“Had a little fight. It won’t happen again.” I’m a fucking liar. Eight grand an hour, it sure as shit better happen again.

He stares at me for a few hard seconds, then leans back in his chair, slowly pulling his feet up on his desk. I’m holding my hands on my kneecaps, my posture straighter than it ever is anywhere else—I’m like a child waiting for my suspension from the principal.

“Don’t get yourself hurt. I need your ass on the ice. You’re starting,” he says.

My shock is a little delayed because at first I start to stand, expecting to leave with my tail between my legs, but then his words register, and I fall back into my seat.

“Starting,” I repeat. I don’t ask. I know one thing—you don’t ask Bishop questions. I just need clarification. I’m not questioning.

“You get punched in your goddamned ears? Yes. Starting,” he says. “Your numbers are better than Gilbert, so I need you to spend more time out there on the puck. I need you to keep it out of Northwestern’s control next week, and out of Penn’s after that. You get that puck, and you get it to Metzger, and we will win it all this year. Now, you think you can do that? Or do you want to go back to spending your time in some stink-ass back alley with a mugger or whatever fuckin’ piece-of-shit lie you told me about those bruises on your face?”

I blink for a second.

“No sir. I got it. Get the puck to Trent. Done,” I say, standing before I say anything else stupid. “And you’re right. I did lie. It was a big fight. But you should see the other guy.”

I wait for him to laugh. He doesn’t. I said something stupid, so I leave before I continue making it worse.

Trent’s waiting for me by my locker, so I let him stew in curiosity while I throw my sweatshirt on and pack up my gear. I glance at him, but keep my face hard, letting him believe I got my ass chewed out as he follows me out of the rink, out to the parking lot and finally to the back of my car.

“Well, how bad? Did he suspend you? Please say he didn’t suspend you,” he asks. I unlock my trunk and throw my bag inside with a thud, closing the trunk and holding my excitement in for a few more seconds while I sigh and turn to face him.

“Do you prefer working a shot based on our offense or would you rather have more breakaways?” I ask. His face is blank at first, and his expression starts out as what-the-fuck, then suddenly it hits him.

“You asshole!” he punches my chest.

“Starting, at least through Penn,” I smile.

“Hell yes, you are!” Trent slaps my hand, gripping it at our shoulders before he bumps into me. We both walk around our sides and get into the car. I pause before I start it, my mind flashing to Emma for a second, then back to the good news I got this morning. My heart feels lighter, and things suddenly seem clearer. I keep it to myself as I pull away, but in that instant, I decide that tonight’s the night I’m honest with Lindsey and go after what I really want, what I’ve always wanted.