Page 97 of Secret Obsession
“Whiteshaw!” Coach barks.
I snatch my hand away and skate back to the crease just as the puck soars past me.
Into the net.
Fuck.
The searing sound of his whistle rips through the rink.
“Everyone on the line,” he orders. “We’re doing sprints until Whiteshaw can tell me why he wasn’t in the fucking net!”
There’s mass grumbling and glares in my direction, but Knox is the one to jostle me.
“Don’t worry about it, dude,” he says. He lines up beside me. “Everyone gets on Coach’s bad side at some point or another.”
The whistle blows, and off we go.
It fucking sucks to skate fast in my pads. I come in last, weighed down by my gear and restricted in my movements.
We go again.
And again.
And again. Until sweat drips down my back and my lungs sear. Everyone else seems in various shades of exhaustion, too. My brother is leaned over, his forearms braced on his thighs.
Until Coach skates to a stop in front of me and points back toward the net.
We spend the next forty minutes with everyone taking shots at me, until I can stop ten in a row. And thankfully, that comes sooner rather than later.
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s stopping a fucking puck. When I’m paying attention anyway.
“There might be hope for you yet, Whiteshaw,” Coach comments. “Now everyone get out of my sight.”
Tonight, I’m on a mission. I hurry through stripping down and showering, changing into new clothes. My bag is packed, and I’ll take care of my sticks later. Right now, I’ve got somewhere to be.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the Crown Point Arts building. They’re holding the dance competition this week, and it’s not too difficult to find my way upstairs to the large, open space. It’s used as a gymnastics gym and converted for their competitions. But the dance competitions also use it when the gym at CPU is otherwise occupied.
I find a seat and tap the girl on the row below me on the shoulder. She might go to CPU, I don’t know, but her face blanches when she sees me.
“Has CPU gone on yet?” I ask her.
“Are you Miles Whiteshaw?” she asks instead. “Knox’s brother?”
I grind my teeth. “Yeah.”
“Wow,” she breathes.
“Our team,” I reiterate.
Her awed expression shutters slightly. “Oh, yeah. They’re coming on next, I think.”
Perfect. I settle back, hoping my face conveys that I’m done talking. It doesn’t stop her from glancing back at me, and then she leans over toward her friend. They burst into a fit of giggles. I don’t know why.
A few minutes later, the familiar CPU blue and silver colors bounce out onto the stage. They set up, and I scan the area. I see Willow and her best friend. They’re both blonde, and they exchange a glance with each other right before the music starts.
But my gaze is glued to Willow.
She’s toward the back, maybe because she’s only a sophomore, but she dazzles. Her smile sparkles. She shifts into position, rolling and twirling and moving with the music. Not even like she’s movingwithit, but she has fully become the music. Not everyone does that. My gaze turns more analytical as I study the girls around her.
