Page 125 of Make the Play

He crosses his arms and looks at me. Not mad, just stern. Eyes scanning me, taking inventory of every part of me that’s off.

“You skating hurt?”

I shake my head. “No, Coach.”

“You sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“You lying?”

“…Maybe.”

He exhales hard through his nose and looks out over the rink. “You remember I was in that board meeting, right? The one where your little PR stunt got green-lit?”

I say nothing.

He cuts his gaze back to me. “You wanna explain to me how that music festival kisswasn’treal?”

I freeze.

He doesn’t give me time to answer.

“I’ve watched you for five seasons, Walton. Seen you half-ass media days, clown your way through drills, coast when you should’ve been digging in. But the second Zoe Carlson walks into a room, you suddenly remember how to sit upright.”

“Coach—”

“I don’t care,” he says, lifting a hand. “Not if it’s working. And itisworking—on the ice, in the press, online. You’re behaving. Dialed in. And for once, you’re not making me wanna hurl a puck at your skull.”

I huff a laugh.

“You wanna prove you give a shit?” he says, stepping in closer.

“Idogive a shit.”

“Then show it. On the puck. On your gaps. Not just in your damn Instagram stories.”

He lets that hang there, and I nod once, jaw tight.

“Because if this thing with Zoe is real now, like I think it is,whether you’ve admitted it to anyone or not, I don’t want you distracted. I need you ready from game one, not skating through molasses because you’re too busy wondering about the girl you got at home. So you better lock it in.”

I blink. Then smirk.

“I mean, she’s agreatgirl, Coach. She—”

He shoots me a look. “You write vows on my ice, and I swear to God, Walton, I’ll bury you in drills.”

Then he claps me once on the shoulder, harder than necessary, and walks off.

***

By the time I pull into the underground garage, it’s just after two. We have a rest day tomorrow, thank God, which means one blissful stretch of time where I won’t be skating suicides or getting verbally abused by Coach Benson in front of a dozen sweaty witnesses.

The elevator dings, and I lean my head back against the wall inside, letting myself breathe for a second.

Lock it in.

Coach’s words haven’t left my head all day. Not just because he’s right, but because the only thing Iwantto do is lock it in.

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