I wait until the coaches depart. And then I skate up to Bryce, who’s moving one of the extra nets out of the way. “What the hell was that?” I hiss. “Why would you treat me like a child, instead of an athlete?”

Bryce jerks his head back in shock. “I did not treat you like a child.”

“You absolutely did! Don’t try to make my life easier, Bryce. That is not why I came to Brooklyn. And that is not what you’re supposed to be to me—my protector. You’re supposed to—” I bite off the rest of the sentence. Kiss me. Love me. Want me.

I don’t say these things out loud. I shouldn’t have to. And furthermore, we’re not alone. When I glance over my shoulder, I spy Anton Bayer crossing through the vestibule, in earshot of everything I’m saying. And his eyes look worried.

Luckily, I don’t have to stop yelling at Bryce. I can just switch to French, and insist that he doesn’t ever take it easy on me in practice again. On penalty of death. Or at least a good maiming.

“Je suis désolé, Sylvie. Je ne veux pas.”

He’s trying to appease me. But I’m still so angry I could burst.

So I turn on my skates and walk away without another word.

TWENTY-THREE

Such a Grind

ANTON

Oh man. The moment Sylvie busts me for eavesdropping on her argument with Campeau, I high-tail it out of the rink.

Not that anyone asked me, but she was absolutely justified in her anger. Anyone could see that he wasn’t shooting at her the same way he did for everyone else. That’s not what the coach asked of him, either. A player can’t grow without practicing at the highest level.

Yet any fool could also see that he’d done it out of love. There’s no way he intended to humiliate her. That’s just not the kind of guy he is.

I’m still thinking about them when I slip into the back of the video room, where the defensive coordinator is showing us tape in preparation for our first preseason games.

“This rookie sniper was named the MVP of the Junior World Championships in 2018…” Coach drones.

Campeau’s thing with Sylvie is none of my business. And signing up to teach swimming lessons with her was probably a stupid move.

My little crush is only going to get worse.

The coach drones on about New Jersey’s scoring style, and I try to pay attention.

* * *

When Coach is done, I somehow manage to enter the lobby from the video room at the same moment that Sylvie bounds out of the tunnel, heading for the door.

“Hey,” I say, startled by the reappearance of the girl I can’t stop thinking about. Her cheeks are flushed. Stealing glances at her for a week has taught me that she always has high color in her cheeks, as if she burns a little brighter than other women.