As much I try not to, I care about what people think of me. More specifically, I care about what this girl—the one who bumped into me outside the library and now babysits my sister—thinks. I see the subtle judgment in her eyes every time she musters up enough courage to look at me, and it sends an uneasy feeling down my spine.

I had to do some asking for her name, since she wouldn't give it up herself. First, I'd tried to get it from my mom. But she was on a phone call, so she unceremoniously shooed me out of the home office. I couldn't get much there. So I turned to my next resort: Ever.

"Ev," I'd asked, "what's your babysitter's name?"

"Wen."

I deadpanned. "When?"

She nodded. "Wen."

"When?"

"Yes, Wen!"

Suffice to say that conversation didn't go well. Finally, I managed to get it from a guy on the school committee, who knew her from when he was in a group project with her in chemistry.

Wren Martin.

She intrigues me. More than she should. More than I should allow her to, seeing as she has nothing to do with the things that rule my life. The way she looks at me, like she's indifferent to and frankly bored by my presence—it gets under my skin. No one's ever reacted to me that way before.

Either way, it's high school, and I have a few months left to mess around with my boys and focus just enough to get into college. I'm planning to get into a hockey college like Grover, and in a few years, hopefully bag a contract as a rookie with the Boston Bruins. When the season kick-starts this year, I'm giving it my all. Sweating it out on the ice is what I enjoy, what I love, and what I'll never half-ass.

Today's the first early morning practice. I get up extra early, go for a short jog, and eat a light breakfast before driving to school. Practice is something I always look forward to. I don't care if it's five in the morning; I think it's pretty cool to start off a day doing something you love.

Coach told us that we wouldn't be going on the ice because apparently our fitness sucked, so the team and I spend the whole morning running laps and lifting weights.

A towel hits me in the face, interrupting my thoughts. I glance up at Zach, who just shrugs. Shaking my head, I chuck it back at him before pulling on a pair of black jeans and a blue hoodie.

"Yo, does anyone have shampoo?" Harvey yells from his shower, which is now underwear-free. He exits, putting a hand through his hair. "I can't find mine."

Daniels shouts from the other side, "Here, bro," he says, "I got you." Daniels hands his bottle to Harvey, suspiciously eagerly, then moves back to his spot.

"Thanks, man," Harvey says over his shoulder, going back to the shower.

Once he's inside, Daniels grins weirdly and mutters a few words under his breath. He claps his hands, getting back to what he was doing. I raise a brow. Not suspicious at all . . .

"Daniels," Harvey pipes from the stall. "Why doesn't your shampoo foam up?"

"It's just like that," Daniels shrugs, overly innocent.

A few minutes later, a pink haired Harvey emerges. I snort. The rest of the team freeze for a moment, then burst into laughter at the sight. As if feeling all our eyes on him, Harvey lifts his head.

"What?" His voice turns panicked. "What is it?"

Miller's the first to sober. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong, man."

Harvey notices something's off and ignores Miller, moving to the mirror. He gasps when he sees his blond hair is gone. Raking a hand through his hair, he turns on his heel, looking at Daniels, who's laughing hysterically.

"If this is your way of getting back at me for using your shoe to move underwear, I'm going to say you failed. I still look good with silver hair." He folds his arms across his chest, thinking he's won the battle. Confusion swirls in his eyes as Daniels laughs even harder than before, tears springing to his eyes.

"Harvey," I say slowly, "your hair's pink."

Realization hits him. Horror marks his face as he flips to face the mirror. "Shit, I forgot I'm color blind."

My laugh blends with the rest of the team's. Zipping up my duffel, I leave as Daniels and Harvey start fighting. I swing my bag over my shoulder and walk to my locker. The school's hallways, which were empty and abandoned this morning, are now full and buzzing with noise. The bell rings as I close my locker door, then walk to my class.

~

In the cafeteria, I fidget with the cap of my water bottle, thinking about the upcoming game. We're going to be playing Lynwood, one of the best schools in the region. Coach may have let my hand coordination go unnoticed, but my passes are a little off and my reactions are too slow. I make a mental note about perfecting them before Friday's game.

As if on cue, Brody nudges me. "Bro, where you at?"

The guys, Brody and Zach, have had my back since the beginning of time. And if you want to know where they fit in my life, it's somewhere between family and hockey. They're blood. But I can't admit this to Brody because he'll never let me live it down, so I offer him a noncommittal shrug and lazy grin. "Here and there."

"Well, gather 'em up, weed," Zach chimes.

Chandler's taken to calling me "weed" instead of what the team and the rest of the school call me—Reed—because, well, he's a dumbass who likes grating on my nerves. But he's used the nickname so often it's worn its course, so I just shake my head with a ghost smile as he keeps talking. "We're on the ice this season and you need to get your head in the game."

"All right, Troy Bolton," Brody murmurs.

But I nod in earnest. "Got it."

"Can't say shit without this dude mentioning High School Musical." Zach rolls his eyes, and I gotta admit, he's a good-looking guy. We all are. I guess that explains the girls who flock to our table, but Christ, ask me to tell you all their names and I'm out flat. Girls are fleeting, never a permanent fixture in my life, so I never bother to carve out a new facet for something that won't stick around for long anyway.

"Ha," Brody scoffs. "So you did watch it."

Zach shrugs nonchalantly. "I watched it on a date, big deal."

"Sure. That's why you know all the songs off by heart."

I fight a grin as I watch them bicker, but I can't help it when my gaze strays to the lower level of the cafeteria where a certain red-hoodied girl is seated. I can't see her face because she isn't facing me, but her dark-haired friend must have said something funny, because her shoulders are shaking with unrestrained laughter.

I wonder what it would feel like to make someone like Wren Martin laugh. With the way she guards her name and only offers it to Those Who Are Worthy, I bet it would feel like conquering Everest. I wonder why she's all clammed up, hiding under that hoodie all the time. But most of all? I'm wondering why the hell I can't seem to get this girl out of my mind.

~

As Friday rolls around, I find myself charged for the first game of the season. Yeah, it's a charity game organized by the school board, but I'm looking forward to it nevertheless. We lost against Lynwood last year, and it's not going to happen again.

I'm primed for the hockey season. I spent the first half of summer break in the rink, the latter in Miami with my uncle Dean, swimming a lot and getting the kind of tan that's hard to get in Cambridge. This year, I stand a chance of getting scouted. All the injuries, pain, and early mornings could finally be worth it.

I glance at my teammates, who've been with me through my high school years. We used to wait for this day—the game that would kick off our final year.

"Guys!" I shout, my voice echoing in the rink. "Gather up."

They trudge over in their skates. Normally, we wouldn't be in these before the game, but since it's a home game today, Coach wanted us to come in extra early and do some warm-ups before the opposing team arrives and, I quote, "Steals our rink and pucks from us."

Daniels sends me a lazy smile as he heads back into the changing room. I can bet my ass he'll come back with an excuse for him not making it to the meeting. He finds these things a waste of time.

"Daniels." I smirk as I see his face fall as he reenters the rink. He opens his mouth to say something but I interrupt him. "Coach is on his way. Do I need to tell him that you need to sit this game out because you're not potty trained?"

He ducks his face as it turns red. After the guys round up their equipment and take out the bags of pucks from the storeroom, I start talking.

"So," I say. "First game of the season."

The team hoots and whistles in response.

"These are just preseason games, but it's a good opportunity to see how we all work together with the new skills we have and any game plans you want to try out." They all nod in agreement. "So, let's get on the ice and win this!"

I reach for my stick. One by one, we get onto the ice, gliding over to the right side, where Blake sets up the drill. I divide everyone into groups of three: two offensive and one defensive player.

"Everyone knows the drill. Hemmings, you ready?"

Standing in front of the goal, he lifts his stick, signaling that he is. I nod at Zach so that he can start. He and Harvey pass the puck to each other as Brody crouches low, stick in hand, ready to attack.

One of Brody's best skills is that he can see when the attacker will slip and make a mistake, and that's when he lunges. The only problem with this kind of tactic? It's time consuming. On the ice you rarely have time to mull over things, you just have to trust your gut and go for it.

Standing on the side of the play, I watch as Brody's skates move at a slight angle while he stares intently at the puck and the two controlling it. Then, before Harvey can pass it back to Zach, the puck is in Brody's possession. His blank expression disappears as he looks up at them with a smile on his face.

"Knight, I need you to be faster with your attacks. That goes for you two as well." I look at Chandler and Harvey. "If you can't get past the defense, spread out and use the boards if you need to."

After multiple drills, and trying to perfect our power plays, Coach arrives. "Reed!"

I break away from the group, skating over to the opposite side where Coach is standing. He gives me a passing look. "Did you go over all the drills?"

I nod. "We're finishing off the last play."

He lifts his hand to glance at his watch. "The game's in twenty minutes. Dale should arrive just now. Round 'em up in five minutes."

Muttering a lukewarm response, I head back to the boys, the cool air of the rink whipping past me. As soon as we get off the ice, green shirts fill the front of the arena. They watch us shake the ice off our skates and stride to where Coach is sitting.

"Shit, look at number seven," Brody whispers to me, his cheeks flushed red from the ice. "He's huge."

"That's what she said." Zach grins.

I shake my head, huffing a laugh as I loosen my skates. Chandler's a real-life version of Michael from The Office, so naturally, he can't go a day without saying "That's what she said," at least once.

Coach shows us diagrams of what the game plan for tonight is, while some of the guys get distracted by the sounds of pucks being hit across the rink, or the fact that Dale has a collective tendency to shout aggressively when they play.

Soon the stands are filling up, and the noise level in the arena increases. We tug on our skates and place our mouth guards in. My eyes flicker to the red timer on the wall that's slowly counting down. My heart rate picks up. I let out a breath. This is it.

I signal the team over. Standing in a circle, I look at Hemmings who starts our chant.

"One, two, three—"

"Eastview!"

The cheers get louder. I crouch, holding my stick while looking at the opposition. The buzzer goes off, and we start.

I kick off the ice, and little remains fly behind me. Almost immediately, Miller slides the puck over to me and I hold it against my stick, carrying it farther up. Driving all the way to the left corner of the rink, I make a turn to cut inward, knowing the defense is in front of me leaving the other side of me open.

As I move to the opposite side of the rink, I pop the puck to Harvey, who's stationed behind me, part of the defensemen that follow me. He holds the puck, waiting for the perfect moment.

"Now!" I yell.

I drift toward Harvey, drawing the opposition farther away. Before they can realize their mistake, it's too late. Zach appears on the outer side as Harvey passes the puck to him. The defense tries to move back but Zach makes a shot into the net. The whistle goes off.

Our side of the crowd goes wild as we laugh and come into the center. I slap their backs. "We need a few more like that."

Miller salutes me. "You got it, Cap."

I chuckle and take my position again. This is what hockey is. A game full of twists and turns, where anything's possible. It's something I'd never want to leave. I glance up at the timer. We still have a whole hour left.

~

At intermission we get off the rink, instantly reaching for our bottles. The game's tied at 2–2.

"Boys, you're playing well out there," Coach says, "but there's still a few things I want you to pay attention to. Knight, you don't have eyes at the back of your head; look up before you make a pass. Right now, all of your passes are going straight into the hands of the other team. Daniels, your grip on your stick needs to get tighter. And Reed, you're sitting off for the next ten minutes."

I nod, but a few minutes on the benches and I feel like ripping all my hair out.

"Harvey, stay on your side!" I shout from the sidelines. "You're pushing Daniels too high up!"

Harvey looks up at me, dazed and confused, and way too slow to react when a player skates past him toward the net. By the time he notices, he's heading back as he tries to attack.

"Reed," Coach huffs. "Get back in there."

I rush by the halfway line, yelling for him to come. Harvey makes his way to me and I tap his stick with mine, as a form of encouragement, before gliding onto the ice.

We're neck and neck. I gaze at the timer. Five minutes. We need to make one goal. One goal to change the outcome of this game. Their right winger has the puck, and he's making his way toward me. I don't waste time. Taking off, I block him from the game, isolating him. Zach's on the right side of me, covering my back.

Curving my stick, I pull it toward me before stepping to the side and sliding the puck over to Chandler. As soon as it leaves my stick, I skate straight up to the goal. Two minutes.

Collecting the puck, Chandler rounds to the right side, sending it down the line to Brody.

Come on. Come on.

Brody turns his back to the goal, keeping the puck in front of him.

"Brody!" Coach screams from the side. "Pass it!"

I slide in front of Brody just in time for him to make the pass to me. Pushing the puck with full strength, I take a shot at the left corner of the post. I close my eyes as I hear the buzzer go off. Sweat drips down my face.

I got the shot in.

Several guys jump on top of me, roaring. I fall onto the ice, losing my stick somewhere. Brody and Zach slap me on my shoulder. Grinning widely, I take off my helmet, rake a hand through my hair, and tell them to line up to shake our opponents' hands.

I look around the arena. This is where I want to be. Always.