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

Speaking of torture. Fuck me.

* * *

The good thing about Boyd U was that our Division I 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 long shower, I took my sweet time getting dressed and 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, gray, red, and white. Today’s choice was black, which I hoped wasn’t a bad omen.

“Hey, Coach.” I rapped on the gray metal doorframe and stood at the threshold, 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 glancing up from his phone.

Dammit.

Not only did I not want to get chewed out, but this was eating into my nap window. Maybe I could make up an excuse about having a class soon. Nah. After my 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 spot checks to make sure I was in my classes.

But I didn’t have a choice, so I obeyed, plopping into the worn black leather seat across from his solid-oak desk. He continued to scroll on his phone, 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 twenty 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 too if I went bald.

After another minute, he locked his phone and set it facedown. He placed his elbows on the desk, studying me warily from beneath his red Falcons cap. “I finished my semester check-in with your professors.”

“Okay…” This wasn’t leading anywhere good, given that he’d done all of this by eight o’clock on a Monday.

“Long story short, you’re on probation.”

“Probation?” I echoed. We’d gone 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 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.”