LOGINBy Wednesday night, the hardest part was over. I’d signed the contract, sent the email, and finally run out of reasons to second-guess myself. Melissa’s reply had arrived almost immediately withcongratulations and a reminder to be at the Mercer Athletics studio by ten the next morning. For once, my mind wasn’t inventing worst-case scenarios. Whatever happened after this would be the result of a decision I’d made for myself, not one someone else had forced on me, and that thought made it surprisingly easy to fall asleep. My phone rang a little after eight the next morning, dragging me out of a dream I’d already forgotten. I answered without opening my eyes, smiling when Dean’s name appeared on the screen. “Good morning.” A quiet laugh met the greeting. “You don’t sound convinced.” “I’ve been awake for about twelve seconds. Give me a chance.” “I’ll call back in another twelve.” “You wouldn’t.” “I probably wouldn’t.” I pushed myself upright and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “S
Tuesday night should have felt exciting. Instead, I found myself sitting at the dining table with the Mercer Athletics contract spread open in front of me, reading the same pages for what had to be the fourth time. Every clause made sense, every figure looked real, and every opportunity on those pages aligned perfectly with the future I’d imagined ever since deciding sports journalism was where I belonged. None of that was making the decision difficult. The problem was the logo printed across the top of every page. Mercer Athletics. That single name carried far more weight than the rest of the contract combined. Ava wandered into the kitchen wearing oversized pajamas, took one look at me and immediately burst out laughing. “You haven’t moved.” “I have.” She eyed the untouched glass of juice beside my elbow. “Rotating the contract doesn’t count.” “It absolutely counts as movement.” Still grinning, she crossed the room, picked up the folder without waiting for permission, an
By Sunday morning, everyone looked like they had been through a week, not a weekend. The cabins emptied amid half-packed bags, misplaced chargers and constant complaints about sore muscles. Ryan, somehow, still had enough energy to narrate his suffering to anyone within earshot.“I’ve reached a conclusion,” he declared while dragging his hockey bag toward the bus. “Coach Reynolds is personally offended by joy.”Blake didn’t even slow down. “You say that after every practice.”“Because he keeps proving me right.”Coach Reynolds happened to walk past at that exact moment. “If you’ve still got enough breath to complain, we clearly didn’t work you hard enough.”Ryan stopped walking and watched him disappear.“…I really should stop setting myself up.”The ride back to Easton felt nothing like the trip to camp. Friday had been loud. People had argued over playlists, traded snacks and shouted across the aisle before the bus had even left campus. Now, the only sounds came from the engine, the
By the time I got back to the cabin, smiling had become a problem. My cheeks actually hurt, and I didn’t notice until Ava looked up from the book resting in her lap, studied my face for a few seconds, then quietly closed it. “Oh no.” I dropped my backpack beside the bed. “What?” She pointed at me. “That.” “What about it?” “You’ve got the look.” “I don’t know what look you’re talking about.” “The one that says you’ve disappeared for over an hour and come back looking ridiculously happy.” “I was gone.” “And now you’re smiling.” “I am.” She folded her arms, trying very hard to look intimidating. “You’re being suspiciously calm.” “I’ve just had a nice evening.” “Mhm.” “You said you weren’t going to interrogate me anymore.” “I’m not.” She shrugged into her hoodie. “I’ll find out eventually. I always do. Right now, Melissa texted everyone. Apparently we’re meeting at the lodge in ten minutes.” “What for?” “No clue.” She reached for the door. “But Ryan’s involved, so I’d lo
I settled onto the bleachers after everyone else had gone and opened my laptop, working through the photos I’d taken throughout the day while scheduling the posts Melissa wanted for the next morning. Between uploads, I chipped away at a reading assignment for one of my journalism classes, but every few minutes my attention drifted back to the ice. Dean was still there, repeating the same shooting drill over and over, collecting his own pucks before skating back into position. Practice had ended a long time ago. Nobody was timing him anymore. Nobody was asking him to stay. He simply wasn’t ready to leave. By the time I looked up again, daylight had faded into evening. Dean finally glanced toward the stands, spotted me and smiled before lifting his stick in greeting. Then he motioned for me to come down. I closed my laptop, picked up the towel and water bottle he’d left behind and headed toward the boards. Somewhere between the bleachers and the ice, I found myself studying him in a
Saturday had been underway for hours when the pace inside the arena shifted. The easy mood from the bonfire was gone, replaced by the focus that settled over everyone whenever Coach Reynolds stepped onto the ice. Blake moved between camera positions while I followed the day’s content schedule, grabbing behind-the-scenes photos whenever Melissa pointed me toward something worth capturing. It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked seeing the parts of the game fans never did. Ava, on the other hand, looked like she’d been personally victimized by Melissa’s clipboard. “I’ve carried tripods, delivered water bottles, found missing tape, printed schedules, and somehow I’m still being asked to hold somebody’s laptop,” she muttered as she hurried past me. “You wanted a relaxing weekend.” “I wanted nature. Fresh air. Maybe a canoe.” “You got unpaid internship experience.” “I got scammed.” Melissa called her name again from across the rink. Ava looked toward the ceiling. “If anyone needs me, I’







