Page 264 of Faking the Goal

"Better," he says. "Again."

By then, the rest of the team has probably finished showering and left the arena, but I barely notice how empty the rink has become. This is the kind of work I stay for because one fraction of a second can be the difference between making the save and watching the puck hit the back of the net. I know how good I am, but I also know that being good enough here doesn't mean I'll be good enough at the next level. If scouts are watching, then every weakness matters, even the small ones that most people would never notice.

When Coach Jameson finally blows the whistle, my chest is heaving and my legs feel heavy beneath me. He skates closer while I pull off my mask and take a long drink from my water bottle.

"That last set was better," he says. "You stopped trying to beat the play before it developed."

"I was rushing it."

"You were. But you fixed it." He taps his stick lightly against my pad before turning toward the puck cart. "That's why this works with you. You don't waste time arguing when something is wrong. You stay until it isn't."

"There's always something to fix."

"Exactly." Coach tosses the last few pucks into the cart before looking over at me with an amused smile. "Now go. I don't think I've ever seen you check the wall clock that many times during a session."

I huff out a quiet laugh.

I glance at him, but there's no point denying it when he has clearly been watching me. "Sorry, Coach. It's just that my girlfriend's waiting for me."

"So go see your girl."

The words bring an automatic grin to my face before I can stop it. "That's the plan."

Coach Jameson chuckles before waving me off, and I don't waste another second. My legs feel like they've been run over by a Zamboni after nearly three hours on the ice, every stride heavier than the last as I skate toward the tunnel. My hips ache, my shoulders are tight, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to regret every one of those recovery drills tomorrow morning.

Somehow, none of it slows me down.

If anything, I'm moving faster.

By the time I reach the locker room, I'm practically jogging despite every muscle in my body protesting. A few of the guys who stuck around to lift after practice are still changing, but I barely register them as I peel off my gear. The familiar routine takes over—pads, chest protector, skates, compression gear, shower, then clean clothes—all of it done with the efficiency that comes from years of doing the exact same thing almost every day.

Usually, after a long practice like this, all I can think about is getting back to the Pond, eating enough food to feed a small village, and collapsing into bed.

Lately, though, getting back to the Pond has started meaning something entirely different.

It isn't just the hockey house anymore.

It's home.

Because wherever Taylor happens to be somehow feels like home.

I catch myself smiling like an idiot as I tug a clean hoodie over my head.

Seriously?

I saw her this morning.

We ate breakfast together.

Walked to campus together.

Texted throughout the day.

We'll probably spend the rest of the evening together, too.

And somehow my brain is acting like I haven't seen her in a month. It's honestly a little embarrassing.

Apparently waking up beside her every morning isn't enough anymore. Apparently my stupid heart has decided it needs a daily Taylor quota, and if I go more than a few hours without seeing her, it starts filing complaints.