When freshman Sophia Honey moves into Northridge University, the last person she expects as her roommate is Theo Gray-her brother's best friend, a star hockey player, and her childhood nemesis. Little did she know, everything was about to change fas...
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DISTRACTION.
I need a fucking distraction.
My jaw clenches as I line up another shot, my hands gripping the stick tighter than necessary. The puck sails into the net, but the fire inside me isn't cooling down. If anything, it's getting worse. I skate back, grab another puck, and send it flying. Another goal. Another wave of anger rippling through me. It's like no matter how many times I sink the shot, it's not enough. My brain just won't shut off.
I didn't want today to come, but here we are on a fucking Monday.
I hate Mondays.
Sam is skating toward me, part of the opposing team in practice today. I push forward, trying to cut through him, trying to get away from the raging storm inside me. I speed up, planning to dodge past him and score again, but he swings his stick out just as I make my move. The next thing I know, I'm hitting the ice, hard. It's cold, unforgiving, mocking me as I groan in frustration.
"Hey, Theo," a voice says, close by. My eyes narrow, locking onto their skate blade before dragging up to their face. "You okay?"
I don't answer. I can't. Words don't mean anything right now. Instead, I push myself up, glaring over at Sam. He looks confused, maybe even a little scared. I need to control this. Control. Theo. Control.
"I'm fine," I say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. The muscles in my face ache from the effort, but it works. He backs off, probably thinking I'll snap if he says one more thing.
"Gray! Get over here!" Coach's voice cuts through the rink, filled with that familiar anger and disappointment. I turn to face him, already feeling my stomach twist. He's standing on the other side of the rink, face tight, arms crossed.
Fuck. As much as I hate him calling me by my last name, I hate the look on his face even more.
I can feel the eyes of my teammates on me, everyone knowing exactly why Coach is calling me out. I wasn't thinking, wasn't focused, and now I'm paying for it. I wasn't even focused enough to eat this morning. If it wasn't for Sophie's pasta, I might've thrown my stick at Sam when he knocked me down.
What the hell's wrong with me today?
"What's wrong with you, son?!" Coach's voice booms as I skate over to him, my eyes glued to the worn-out shoes he's wearing. I stare at them like they have all the answers. Maybe I should buy him a new pair if we win this round. Not that he'd accept it. He'd probably just lecture me like he's about to do now.
"Nothing, sir," I reply, the words coming out flat. I can almost hear the disappointment in his sigh before it even happens. It's the same every time I say that.
"Son, I hope you're good," Coach says, his tone lowering like he's trying to figure me out. Fear creeps in, wondering if Logan told him anything.
"I'm fine, Coach," I lie, forcing myself to look up at him. His face is softer now, concerned in a way that makes me wish my dad ever gave me that look.
