Second wasn't good enough, and Coach Miller sure wanted us to remember that.

    Sweat dripped down the nape of my neck as I stumbled over to my locker. The equipment that was once a second skin was now weighing me down. Practice had been brutal. Coach ran us through relentless drills until every muscle in my legs burned and my lungs blazed like charred ash.

    I dropped to the bench, rubbing a towel on my head. A few drops of sweat evaded my poor attempt at drying myself off and fell to the floor in front of me. I couldn't wait to hit the showers.

    Standing, I peeled the practice jersey over my head, only to be faced with Hendrix's nameplate on the neighbouring locker. My already negative mood soured even more. While he seemed to be doing better, there was no word about when he'd be returning to the ice.

    Or if he'd be coming back at all.

    "Sousa!" Coach's voice cut through the clatter. He had made his way in from the rink and was standing by his door, his expression unreadable. "In my office," he said curtly before turning and walking away.

    The frown lines I had already been wearing deepened. From the corner of my eye I could see Booker trying to exchange looks with me, eyebrows raised, but I didn't feed into it. I had no idea why Coach would hold an impromptu meeting with me after practice. So instead, I ignored him and exchanged a quick look with McKinley instead. If anyone had insider information about what went on in Coach Miller's head, it would be him. But all my teammate could do was shrug his head.

    Fuck.

    Coach's office held the faint aroma  of stale coffee and hockey tape. The small space was cluttered with papers with a whiteboard covered in scribbles behind his desk. He had been leaning up against the piece of furniture as I walked in, his arms crossed as he stared down at the tiled floor.

    "Close the door behind you," he said, not even bothering to peer up at me. When I did what he asked he continued. "Take a seat."

    I did as he asked, getting as comfortable as I could while sitting on the worn cushion on the chair he had in front of his desk.

    "What's this about, Coach?"

    Without responding right away he made his way to his own seat. He rested his elbows on the wooden surface of his desk, steepling his fingers together. He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked down at the papers in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the rink's cooling system.

    "There's been an allegation," he said finally, his voice low. "Serious allegations of sexual assault."

    That statement winded me more than a slapshot to the chest. My pulse quickened and all at once it was as if I was underwater. "Allegations of what?" I choked out, hoping––praying––that I hadn't heard him correctly.

    Coach Miller didn't repeat it. I liked to think it was because it was as hard for him to say as it was for me to hear. His hard gaze flickered down towards the papers before settling on me. "Do you know of a girl named Mila Rostova?"

    For a moment, the floor had been ripped out from under me. Even though I was sitting, my body jolted as if I was waking up from a nightmare. Except I wasn't that lucky. I wasn't waking up from one. I was waking up to one.

    I blinked at him, my mind racing, trying to process what he'd just said. Mila? No. There was no way.

    "Mila?" I repeated, trying to swallow past the thing that had lodged itself in my throat. "There's no way."

    He ran his hand across his tired face. Those hard eyes drilled into me again. "Who is she to you?"

    I drew in a breath. "She's a friend."

    Or at least, she was supposed to be.

    "Look, Sousa, I know you're a good kid. Unfortunately, it's not my job to decide what's true or not, but the university is taking this seriously. Effective immediately, you're off the roster until the investigation is complete."

    The words slammed into me, each one heavier than the last. My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms as I tried to hold back the anger bubbling up inside me.

    "Coach, she's lying," I said through gritted teeth. "She's doing this because I ended things with her. This could ruin all chances of me heading to the NHL."

    Coach's expression didn't change. There might have been a flutter of sympathy, but it was gone faster than it came. As an ex-NHL player, I hoped he'd be able to level with me just by sheer knowledge of how vital this last stretch of the season was for me.

     "The university's policies are clear," he sighed. "My hands are tied with this one, Sousa. We'll follow the investigation wherever it leads."

    I shot to my feet, my chair scraping against the floor. "This is bullshit!"

    Coach remained seated, his face hard as stone. "I get that you're angry, but this isn't the place to lose your head."

    I didn't respond. I couldn't. My chest was tight, and my vision blurred as I turned on my heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind me. I was seething––chest heaving as if I had just finished bag skating. The conversations around me muddled around me as if I was listening to them through a straw.

    I needed to get the fuck out of there.

    Booker came up next to me as I threw a sweater over my head.

    Whatever he asked me went in one ear and out the other. All I could hear was the conversation I had just had in Coach's office on repeat. I was a lot of things; an asshole, a player, hell, some might even call me a womanizer. But an abuser I was not.

    I grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I made a beeline for the exit.

    "Ricky," Booker called. The rest of the locker room was dead silent. "What the hell's going on?"

    I pushed my way through the door, crashing my way through a group of figure skaters as I stormed down the hall.

    Pain rippled through my chest. I was going to lose everything over this. I needed to get to her and convince her to drop the accusation before news of what was happening spread like wildfire through campus.

    My half-baked plan––if you could even call it it––came to an abrupt halt when someone darted in front of me. Their palms pressed into my shoulders, causing me to stop in my tracks.

    "Maverick," McKinley said, trying to get me to focus on him. When I tried to plow past him he tightened his hold. "Hey. What the fuck is going on?"

    My nostrils flared as I jerked my shoulders out of his hold. "I'm off the team."

    "What?"

    My shoulders tensed. "Mila," I spat, the name bitter on my tongue. Then I lowered my tone, afraid the walls were listening in. "She's accusing me of assault."

    Saying the sentence out loud...I was going to hurl.

    McKinley's brow furrowed. He looked as fucked up as I felt sitting in Coach's office.

    "It's a lie," I said, feeling the need to clarify. "I'd never fucking do something like that. She's doing this because I broke things off with her before we left for the tournament. She wants to ruin me, ruin my career."

    "I know," McKinley said, voice soft.

    Those were the reassuring words I was hoping his father would have given me. But even as they were spoken, I knew that in retrospect, they meant nothing. It didn't matter what the people around me thought. Not when an accusation like this could cost me everything.

    The sorrow that burrowed in my chest for a moment dissipated, replaced again with red-hot anger. I was not a violent person. I usually left the heavy hitting to Cole when we were on the ice. But, I'd never been so overcome with fury before. Especially not towards one specific person.

    "I need to go," I huffed, shouldering my way past my teammate. By this point I could feel the stares of our friends behind me.

    "Where are you going?" McKinley called out.

    "I'm going to fucking find her."

    I shoved through the doors to the parking lot, vaguely hearing the footsteps picking up behind me.

_ _ _ _ _

    The roar of my bike filled my ears, the cold wind stinging my face as I weaved through traffic. My chest was tight, my mind racing with everything Coach had said.

    Mila.

    The one girl that I'd spent the majority of my time with for the last two years. How the hell could she do this to me?

    My tires skidded to a stop as I threw my leg over the top of my bike. I barely had time to kill the engine before Booker's truck screeched to a stop behind me.

    "Maverick!" Booker shouted through the open passenger window, Cole sitting in the seat next to him. "Get in the car."

    I ignored him, storming up to the front door of the quaint townhouse and pounding on it with my fist. The sound echoed through the quiet street, but I didn't care.

    "Mila!" I shouted, taking a step back and peering up towards her bedroom window. "Open the door!" But the door stayed closed, and I banged on it again, harder this time. "You want to ruin my life? You think I'm that much of a fucking shitty person?"

    "Maverick, stop!" Booker grabbed my arm, pulling me back as Cole joined him, trying to wrestle me away from the door.

    "Let me fucking go!" I shouted, struggling against their grip. Directly my glare at her window again I shouted, "Poor Mila, always the fucking victim!"

    Booker loomed in front of me, his hands on my shoulders as he forced me to meet his eyes. "This isn't helping, man. You're just making it worse."

    I clenched my fists, shoving them into my friend's chest. "She can't fucking get away with this, Gauthier."

    "She won't," he assured me, holding his open palms out towards me.

    "She fucking will!" I screamed. "And it's disgusting. There are actual victims out there. People who actually need to be heard. And she's pulling this shit because...what? I didn't want to continue the bullshit we had going on?"

    "It's fucked up, I know." Booker's voice was still steady, trying to talk me off a ledge. "But this isn't going to fix it. Come on, Maverick. Let's go."

    I shook my head, turning to head back to the front door. "No, I got to talk to her."

    Cole grabbed a hold of me this time. "You need to dial it down a few notches first."

    For a moment, I didn't move. My fists were still clenched, my body taut with anger. But then the fight drained out of me, and I shrugged off Cole's hands, stepping back from the both of them. As much as I didn't want to admit it, they were right. Trying to have a productive conversation with anyone at the moment was impossible. Not with the way I was feeling.

    I turned without a word, stalking back to my bike and climbing on. From the street I noticed the brush of Mila's curtains swaying and I clenched my jaw hard enough that I almost broke my molars. I cranked the key with more force than necessary, the engine of my motorcycle roaring to life. My tires squealed as I peeled down the street until the townhouse was nothing but a dot in the distance.

    But no matter how fast I rode, the weight of her betrayal stayed with me, pressing down on my chest like a vice.

_ _ _ _ _

author's note:

    Poor Ricky, I really feel for him. How many of you saw this coming?

We're in the final stretch and there's a lot that's about to unfold! Also, a couple more weeks until I'm off for the holidays. I cannot wait to buckle down and mark this story complete!

Happy reading!