Page 95 of With the Assist

I knock once before stepping into his office, closing the door behind me. It smells like stale coffee and dry-erase markers, the same as it always does. It’s the same cramped space where careers get nudged forward or quietly stalled. He’s already sitting, his glasses low on his nose, and his tablet open on the desk.

“Sit,” he orders.

I do, towel draped around my neck, catching the sweat still dripping from my hair. He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he’s deciding how much to say and how much to hold back.

“Hell of a night,” he starts. “You were everywhere. Smart reads and strong on the wall. You look comfortable on the left.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

He nods, then taps the tablet with his finger. “I talked to the front office this afternoon and again during the second intermission.”

My pulse jumps.

“They’re happy,” he continues. “Very happy. Your improvements are obvious, but it’s more than that. You’re driving the plays and elevating every teammate on your line. The switch is working.”

“That’s good to hear.” Relief douses the nervous flames that were burning in my chest.

“It is.” He leans back in his chair. “Nothing is signed yet, so don’t get ahead of yourself, but if you keep this up, you’re putting yourself in a very strong position.”

I nod slowly, absorbing it, letting myself feel the weight of his words. All the phrases my agent has been dancing around are confirmed by someone who actually has the power to sway the decision.

Then Coach sighs, and I know there’s more.

“There is something else,” he says.

Of course there is.

He folds his hands together on the desk. “I’m going to be straight with you. I noticed the timing of this turnaround.”

I stay quiet.

“You were pressing earlier in the season. Then suddenly, things click. Your excitement on the ice is back. And at the same time, you show up to a couple of events with a girlfriend.”

Something inside me sinks, and I shift in my seat. This is not something I want to be discussing with him.

“I don’t love that,” he says bluntly. “Historically, when guys in your position start dating seriously, it’s a distraction. Especially when contracts are on the line.”

“I hear you,” I say, even though my jaw tightens.

Had he seen me toss the puck to her during warm-ups? It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. I saw her in the stands and couldn’t wait until after the game to talk to her. It seemed harmless at the time, but if they’re worried about me getting distracted, it’s not a great look.

“I’m not saying she’s a problem,” he adds. “I’m saying perception matters. And so does focus.”

He looks at me hard now. “If you keep playing like this, your contract should take care of itself. But if that relationship starts affectingyour game, or if it ends and you spiral, that’s on you. The office won’t be patient.”

The words sit heavy in the room.

“Understood,” I say.

“Good.” He softens slightly. “You’re playing the best hockey you’ve played in years. Don’t lose sight of what matters.”

I stand, nod once more, and leave before I say something I’ll regret, like how Wesley is absolutely none of his business. She’s not the office’s business either. For the hundredth time today, I’m reminded how watched I am at all times. Exhaustion settles heavily onto my shoulders.

The locker room feels different now. It’s quieter, even with the guys still changing and joking. The echo of the game fades into routine. I sit back down at my stall, staring at my skates without really seeing them.

Either everyone thinks Wesley is a distraction, or they think she’s the only reason I’m playing well.

I hate both of those theories.