I was pretty sure Coach Miller scheduled dryland training at 6 AM on Mondays specifically to fuck up the start to my week. Out of all the players on the entire team, I hated early mornings the most, and Miller knew it. We butted heads constantly and he loved to do things to torture me. Or to help build my character, as he liked to say.

At least it was over with for today. He'd even gone light on the burpees for once. Now all I had to do was stretch and foam roll, grab a shower, and head home for a good 2-hour nap before my first class at 10. Probably hit the drive-through somewhere in there, too. Then back to the rink for 4 PM. By the time that was over with, I would probably be too tired to do much else—which I suspected was Miller's intention.

Dallas and I limped into the stretching area and sprawled out on the red mats, both of us still short of breath from our drills. He sat down and leaned over his calf, pulling up on the toes of his black Nike sneakers to stretch out his hamstring.

"Morrison's ex? That's who was at our place Saturday night?" He let out a low whistle, leaning deeper into his stretch. "Are you trying to make life harder for yourself? Now they're really going to have it out for you next weekend."

The Bulldogs had it out for me already anyway. I was public enemy number one, which was perfectly fine with me. It made derailing their game that much easier, just like I did this weekend—like taking candy from a baby, only with taking shots on an empty net.

"You didn't let me finish. Nothing actually happened," I stood up, grabbing a black foam roller off the rack and laying back down with it. "She was too drunk."

"So, are you going to call her? Try for a do-over?"

I sucked in a sharp breath as I leaned on my elbow, trying to foam roll my glute. My entire left backside was full of tight, painful knots. I could barely put any weight into it without flinching. It didn't help that Bailey had been sprawled out across the entire bed, relegating me to a tiny corner because I was trying to give her a buffer of space. I really jacked up my back sleeping that way.

"I didn't get her number." Chump move, Carter.

Then again, she was too busy vomiting curbside Saturday night. And come Sunday morning, she was pretty skittish after waking up in my bed unexpectedly. When I drove her home, she barely let me park the truck before bolting. We didn't exactly get off to the strongest start.

Plus, there was the whole part where she hated me sober.

Dallas switched sides, grabbing his opposite foot with a groan. "Maybe for the best. Coach probably wouldn't appreciate you stirring that pot. You get into enough trouble as it is."

He wasn't wrong, but she was hot enough that I was still willing to risk it, if the opportunity presented itself again.

Hey, I never said I made good choices.

"What about her friends?" I asked. "Did Tyler hit it or what?"

"I think one of their exes showed up and they bailed not long after you guys did. But we met these other chicks and went skinny dipping in their rooftop pool downtown. So, XS for the win."

"I don't know how your reputation stays so squeaky clean," I muttered. "You're no saint either."

"I'm just smarter about it. Ever hear the word discretion?" He raised his eyebrows pointedly, wiping his forehead with his red and white Falcons gym towel. Smug shit.

"Whatever," I said. "We can't all be perfect like you."

In contrast to my type-B slacker ass, Dallas was our team's all-star—well-rounded on and off the ice. He played a highly technical game, racked up tons of points, and could stick-handle circles around everyone else in our division. In short, it was like he'd been genetically engineered to play hockey; think the Michael Phelps of the NCAA.

Unfortunately, this also put a huge target on his back with the other teams. But he wasn't really a fighter and he never really dropped gloves. That was my job, as was making sure that people took dirty hits on him answered for it.

"Perfection might be a little unrealistic for you," he said. "I was thinking more along the lines of trying not to be the Tiger Woods of college hockey."

"Yeah, yeah." I waved him off. Wincing, I adjusted the angle of my glute on the foam roller, but that just made it hurt even more. Maybe I could get in for a sports massage this week. This cylindrical torture device wasn't working out.

"Oh, speaking of Coach," Dallas jutted his chin toward the door to the training room, "he told me he wants to see you before you leave."

Speaking of torture. Fuck me.

*

The good thing about Boyd U was that our D1 hockey program was top notch. The bad part was that Coach Miller was a tyrant. And no one ever got summoned to his office to be congratulated for doing something right.

After a much longer than normal shower and taking my sweet time getting dressed, I finally dragged myself down the hall to his office. Coach Miller sat at his desk with his wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his ruddy nose, immersed in his phone. His work wardrobe consisted of black track pants with a rotation of Falcons hoodies in black, grey, red, and white. Today, his sweatshirt was black, which I hoped wasn't some kind of bad omen.

"Hey, Coach." I rapped on the grey metal doorframe and stood in the doorway, praying he wouldn't order me to come in. "Ward said you wanted to see me?"

"Sit." He pointed at the chair in front of him without even glancing up from his phone.

Dammit.

Not only did I not want to get chewed out, this was eating into my nap window. Maybe I could make up an excuse about having a class soon. Nah. After a bumpy sophomore year, Miller was up my ass constantly. I was pretty sure he had my schedule memorized inside and out. He probably even did walk-by spot checks to make sure I was in my classes.

But it's not like I really had a choice, so I obeyed, plopping down into the worn black leather seat across from his wooden desk. He continued to scroll on his screen, face contorted into a sour frown. I scanned the walls of his office, lined with trophies and photos from tournaments and championships dating up to 20 years back. Man, Miller used to have a nice head of thick wavy brown hair. Maybe that's why he was so pissed off all the time. I would be mad at the world if I went bald, too.

After another minute, he locked his phone, setting it face down. He placed his elbows on the desk and glanced up at me from beneath his red Falcons cap. "I just finished checking in with your professors for the semester."

"Okay..." This probably wasn't leading somewhere good, given that he'd done all of this by 8 AM on a Monday.

"Long story short, you're on probation."

"Probation?"

We went down this road last spring and it was an utter waste of everyone's time and paperwork. After a month or so, I pulled my grades up enough to pacify them and we all moved on. The theatrics and procedural crap were so unnecessary. Why were we doing this again?

"Not officially, thank God." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Because then I would have no choice but to pull you from the line."

"Phew," I said, leaning back and crossing an ankle over my knee.

"No, Carter," he snapped, pinning me with his gaze. "Not 'phew'. You're still on probation with me. With the program, internally speaking. I just spoke to the athletic director about it. We're trying to keep it under the radar this time because repeated probations are a bad look for both you and the program."

"Can I ask what the probation is for?"

"You really don't know? Your grades are in the goddamn toilet. Just like last year."

Well, that wasn't a huge surprise. Since school started three weeks ago, I'd dedicated approximately twenty minutes to studying and completing assignments. I was having a difficult time balancing the fact that it was my last year and I wouldn't be staying to graduate with giving any fucks whatsoever about my grades.

As far as I was concerned, college was a merely an annoying detour along the way to the league. At least I didn't have to worry about losing a scholarship on top of everything else. I was paying my own way through this circus.

"I'll address my grades," I said.

"You'd better." He glared. "Your history teacher tells me you have failed two quizzes already. I also understand you have a term paper due next month that's worth a third of your grade. I expect you'll expend extra energy on that paper to ensure you don't fail the class."

"Yes, I will." Extra energy having someone else write it for me, maybe. That history class was drier than cardboard.

"While we're on the topic of problematic behavior, I also heard about your antics at that little end-of-school party you threw this spring."

I wondered what, specifically, he had heard. There were a several things he would take issue with, some of which weren't exactly legal. Asking for details didn't seem like a good idea, though. Then he might start digging.

"I'm sure whatever you heard was greatly exaggerated."

He shot me look so searing my skin prickled. "I'm told there are pictures, and you'd that better hope that is not the case."

Shit. I did hope that wasn't the case. Maybe we should start confiscating phones at the door. No evidence, no crime, right?

"I have eyes everywhere, Carter. I know everything. If it happened, just assume I've already heard about it."

Cute how he was trying to scare me. But if that last part were actually true, I would have been kicked off the team freshman year.

"Stop gallivanting around with girls, getting in fights, and acting like a teenage idiot."

I almost pointed out that at 21, I was not, in fact a teenager. Then I realized that was his point. Instead, I just nodded. Silence was usually the safest bet for me in these situations.

"Look," he said, tone becoming marginally less hostile. "You add a lot of value to the team. And I appreciate your knack for getting in your opponents' heads. But you have to reel it in a little off the ice, or you're going to ruin all your hard work. Understand?"

"Yes," I muttered. "I understand."

"You can't impress the scouts from the sidelines, Carter. Get it together or get benched. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." I stood up, throwing my back gym bag onto my shoulder and heading for the door. There was still enough time to catch some sleep before class.

"And Carter?"

I turned back to face him. "Yes, Coach?"

He drew in a breath, pinning me with his gaze.

"Consider this your first, last, and only warning."

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