Self-doubts like these are always followed by the same somber thought . . . I wish my dad were still around to talk to. Maybe he’d have some insight or words of wisdom. Or maybe he’d just tell me he’s proud of me and that everything else will start to fall into place. But all I have now is my memories of him.

At the next face-off circle, Bronson skates past, giving me a little shove. “Don’t worry about Tate. He won’t be here next year.”

“At this rate, he won’t be here next week,” Raduloff says, his tone serious now, less teasing.

Bronson is bounced from the face-off circle and replaced with an angry-looking guy from Russia. What happens next is a blur.

They win the puck, and I move into my zone. Raduloff pokes his stick at my skate, almost tripping me before skating away with a smirk.

I race after him across the ice, white noise screaming in my ears, and tackle him from behind. A stealthy, highly illegal attack he wasn’t prepared for.

Raduloff goes down like a sack of potatoes—hard, quick, and without any of the grace he normally has on the ice. When he twists around to fight me off, I get in two solid hits before we’re pulled apart and I’m escorted off the ice.

I feel nothing but rage.

• • •

“What the hell were you thinking?” Coach Wilder bellows, jabbing his finger into my chest before taking a step back so he can continue pacing the conference room with frustrated steps.

We’re joined by Coach Tanner, and a woman I don’t recognize from the league. I’m told she’s the head of player safety, so I know this meeting is serious. Which is why I dressed in a suit and arrived twenty minutes early, just to be safe.

That little stunt I pulled on the ice last night cost us the game. I was ejected, and my team had to play five minutes short-handed for the major penalty. The sports reporters had a lot to say about my behavior, me as a player, as a teammate, as a person . . . and none of it was positive.

Wilder pauses and places one hand on the table, leaning toward me. “Raw talent isn’t enough to justify misconduct. You know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This can’t go unpunished.”

“I understand, sir.”

Coach makes an exasperated sound. “Do you even care about this?”

I care about a lot of things, but I’m not sure hockey is one of them anymore. Keeping those thoughts to myself, I give him the answer he’s expecting. “Yes, of course I do.”

His eyes sink closed, and he inhales slowly. “The team is suspending you.”

My stomach twists as I meet his eyes, waiting for my punishment.

“For eight games.”