Chapter Eight
Tristan
The puck jumps my stick on the one-timer.
Again.
It’s a clean feed from Murph, flawless lane, goalie cheating left—and I still send it wide, the shot clanging uselessly off the boards instead of burying itself in the net. The Redhawks break the other way, crowd roaring. My muscles fire as I pivot and chase.
Too fast. Too rushed.
All power, no touch.
I get another look a shift later. Then another. Five chances where muscle takes over and precision abandons me completely. Every miss tightens something ugly in my chest. I can feel it happening in real time. The harder I push, the sloppier it gets. My body is strong. My timing is trash.
When the final horn sounds, my legs are still buzzing, lungs burning, sweat dripping into my eyes—but all I can think about is the empty space where goals should’ve been.
I coast toward the bench knowing exactly what’s coming.
Coach Metcalfe looms over me, arms crossed and mouth twisted into a bitter scowl. “You’re a mess, Dubois. Your strength is there, but your precision…”
“Is shit.” I rub my hands across my face so that I don’t have to look at him. I want to hit something, to let off the frustration that’s been building up in me all game.
“...leaves something to be desired,” he amends.
“I lost us the game.”
If I was hoping for sympathy, I’m barking up the wrong tree. “Hell, yeah, you did. What was that? You missed five shots. Five. And the goalie could have been asleep for all I know, that’s how far off the net you were.”
It hurts to hear, but it’s true. “Yeah, I know.” I turn away from him and tap my knuckles on my thigh. I’m so pissed at myself. I can do better.
Up in the stands, Knight’s assistant, Marley, is dictating something into her phone. Minerva is sitting beside her. When she catches my eye, she waves. Her expression is soft and curious. Thoughtful. I lift my hand in a tiny answer wave, and she smiles.
“Get out of here,” Coach grumbles. “We’ll work on this in drills. I’m not gonna ride your ass over a mistake here and there, but five…”
“Got it.” I lurch to my feet and follow the rest of the team off the ice. I don’t need Coach to lecture me about how shitty my game was. I am fully fucking aware.
Viktor corners me the second I enter the locker room. “What do you call that, Tristan?”
“The worst game of my career,” I shoot back. I need this guy to get out of my face, at least until I’ve showered and cooled off.
“The worst game of your career so far,” he corrects. “You can always get worse. Not much worse, admittedly, but whatever. That’s not what I’m talking about. You and your assistant had a little moment, huh?”
“We waved,” I tell him.
“You waved with chemistry.”
“Dude, I don’t even know what that means.” I elbow my way around him.
“You’re into her, aren’t you?” he asks from behind me.
“No!”
Camden, who’s been listening to this interrogation, coughs into his fist.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell them. “Let it go.”
Knight shakes his head in disapproval. Great, now the whole team thinks I’m creeping on Minerva.
Bowen saves the day. “So, we’re all going to The Puck Drop after this, right?”
I grab my towel out of my locker. “About that.”
Viktor gets back into my personal space. “ You’re going. You always go. Bros before…”
I spin toward him and jab a finger inches from his face. “Finish that, and I swear to God…”
Knight slips between the two of us. “Boys, boys, please, let’s just get along. Also, Viktor, I’m going to tell Knova that you’re objectifying Minerva. And possibly Tristan.”
“You think I’m scared of her?” Viktor blusters.
The whole locker room goes quiet. Into the silence, Camden coughs again.
Viktor finally backs off. “You’re right. I’m terrified. Mostly of losing her…”
I rub my temple. Between my frustration and the sound of Viktor’s stupid voice, I’m getting a headache. “Yeah. We all know you talk a good game. Could we focus for a minute? So, I’m bringing—”
“Your assistant,” Viktor says.
“Min,” I say at the same time.
Viktor whistles. “Min… your assistant?”
“You don’t get to call her that. To you, she’s Minerva. And I want to lay some ground rules. For one thing, don’t be—”
“Like Viktor?” Camden guesses.
I smirk. “That’s just good life advice.”
“Flirty?” Lenyx interjects. “You don’t want anyone hitting on the assistant. Got it.”
“Anyone else,” Viktor says under his breath.
“No. I mean… that too. Gah.” There are so many ways this could go badly.
Camden scratches his chin. “Too loud? Too quick to move? Too aggressive?”
I point to him. “Yes. All that. Thank you.” I don’t want a repeat of what happened the other night. “Just be normal. But not your version of normal. Normal people’s version of normal.”
Knight slings an arm around my neck and rubs his knuckles in my hair. “So protective. That’s cute.”
“You know I get it,” Camden says. “With Dot, and everything. If Viktor says anything inappropriate to be ‘funny,’ I’ll bounce him.”
“You can try,” Viktor says, puffing out his chest.
“Fine. Whatever. If Viktor gets out of line, I’ll have Knova bounce him.” Camden slaps my back. “Now stop messing around and wash your pits. Best foot forward. Right now, you reek of disappointment.”
* * *
The best place to drown our sorrows is at the Puck Drop, but the mood is more reminiscent of a funeral than an afterparty. Many of our fans limit their interactions with us, choosing instead to cast pitying glances our way. Mostly my way. I drink my beer in glum silence.
Next to me, Minerva sips a Lavender Drop and prods her tablet screen. She’s not missing much in the way of conversation, but I still nudge her with my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to work right now, right?”
“Hm?” She lifts her head. “Oh, I know. I was just looking at the numbers.”
“What numbers?” Camden asks from across the table. “Our pitiful score?”
“Performance numbers,” she clarifies, before adding to me, “Your shooting percentage is down 12% on the right side.”
I pause with my beer raised halfway to my mouth. “That’s… very specific.”
She gives her signature one-shoulder shrug. “I built a performance dashboard for you.”
I just stare. Why is that so hot?
“I’ve been utilizing data from your ring and reviewing footage of you from this season’s games. I’ve been tracking your macros, hydration, sleep quality, shift durations, sprint recovery, and zone entries.”
I set my beer back down. “Jesus Christ, are you my assistant or my analytics department?”
“Both,” Minerva deadpans. She turns the tablet screen toward me and scrolls through a few pages of numbers and notes, so fast that I can’t see anything aside from the color-coded graphs she’s made.
At the top of the file is the title, in bold: Tristan Dubois | Performance Metrics.
“The newest data is the most complete, since I have hard data rather than approximate estimates. Of course, your nutrition fluctuates a tad when you go off-diet, but you’re sticking to it at least eighty percent of the time, based on what I know, which is enough for a meaningful data point.
Everything else is looking good, but you’re favoring your right side.
I’m not sure if you have an old injury or if you just need to train more uniformly.
You’re left-handed, so that might be a factor. ”
“Holy shit.” Camden stands up and leans forward so that he can see the chart, too. “That’s a lot of information.”
Minerva nods. “I thought maybe if he had the right data, he’d feel more in control.”
That word, control, lands somewhere deep inside me. I wonder if that’s something Minerva craves, too: control of her future, control of her life. Things she’s lacked, thanks to her family’s overbearing nature.
“Does Tristan like to take control?” Viktor asks with a sleazy grin.
Minerva doesn’t crack a smile. Maybe the joke went over her head.
Maybe she’s simply locked in on Viktor’s bullshit.
“Since I understand the data, I’m the one who calls the shots.
I just recalibrated Tristan’s macro intake and sleep patterns.
I’m going to increase his protein intake by 14% this coming week.
I’m also going to suggest a melatonin supplement; his REM cycles are erratic the night before games.
It’s a consistent pattern, especially when he’s on the road, but nothing we can’t address through his sleep hygiene habits. ”
There’s a beat of stunned silence before the table erupts.
“Marley!” Knight bellows. “I want a spreadsheet! I want macros! I want a ring!”
Sofia’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“Can I get an assistant?” Viktor asks. “Shit, Minnie, come work for me and I’ll pay you double what he’s paying. Besides, I’m better looking and more fun.”
“No, you won’t,” Knova counters. “You blew your fun money budget on that new gaming system already.”
“But look how good she is!” Viktor whines.
“Maybe if you’d stop eating whole bags of Doritos at two a.m., you’d see some improvements, too,” Knova retorts.
Viktor lowers his voice to a betrayed whisper. “That was supposed to be a secret.”
“Nothing’s secret,” Knight tells him. “I see you chowing down on snacks every gaming session. That’s a good place to start with your sleep hygiene.”
While my teammates squabble, I incline my head toward Minerva. “Thank you. This is amazing. Can you send this to me so I can show it to Coach? Or, better yet, meet with both of us to see if he can figure out how to adjust my drills?”
“I’d love to,” she says.
Love. That word from Minerva’s lips sends a thrill through me.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Camden: Dude, happy looks good on you.
He’s right. I’m beaming. Who cares about the game when I’ve got Min on my side?