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“Of course.” Our captain rolls his eyes.

Just being the subject of their conversation starts an itch on the back of my neck, as if I’m hyperaware of every movement, expression, sigh . . . I fucking hate it.

It’s always been this way for me. The outside looking in.

When I was fifteen, it hurt. I wanted to be part of the team, and Walden Prep kids couldn’t want me gone more. When I’d gotten to Boston, I thought it would be better. It wasn’t. And then Mt. Hart, which arguably was worse.

I’d never had a team that wanted me around. Not really.

But maybe . . . maybe this team—this time, it can be different. As much as I know Koteskiy and most everyone either hates or fears me, I have Holden.

After our first round of drills, he’s farther away from my side on the bench than he usually is, waiting for our line to go back out during the scrimmage. Normally, he’d be up my ass trying to chat and annoying me with every single thought in his brain.

Today, he looks exhausted—quiet and withdrawn from everyone.

Enough that even the team is starting to notice. Especially Bennett.

His tandem, Connor Mercer, is in goal and a freshman named Logan is giving it a go on the opposite side while Reiner takes a break for water and a quick chat with Harris. After he gets the nod from our head coach, he pulls his cage off and stares between Holden and me.

“All good?”

I raise my brow and shrug, looking toward Holden.

“What?” my defensive pair asks, eyes half closed. We’d stayed an extra two hours after yesterday, far beyond the school’s allowed times for us, but LaBlanc had insisted. And instead of it being my fault this time, our coach blamed everything on Holden’s “terrible” backhand shot.

It isn’t terrible, not even subpar. I’ve seen him pull it in multiple games and I’ve only been on the team for half a year.

But still, I can see the effect of LaBlanc’s exhaustive teaching style wearing on Holden and I hate it.

Freddy slides right up to us, still panting as he scoots in between us and grabs his water bottle, spraying himself with it, drinking some, then spitting into the boards. Bennett skates backward in disgust.

“That guy is an asshole,” Freddy says, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know how you two put up with him.”

“Who?” Bennett asks. “LaBlanc?”

“Yeah.”

Holden shakes his head. “He’s a menace, but he knows what he’s talking about. We’re killing that record pre–Frozen Four, huh, Captain?”

Rhys looks up where he’s joined us at the boards, directly in front of where I’m seated on the bench, pretending to check the taping on my stick.

“I trust Coach Harris. If he likes LaBlanc for Kane and Dougherty, I’m sure he’s just an asshole. Besides”—he looks at me and I freeze, not daring to meet his eyes—“Johnson was way fucking worse to Kane. Remember?”

He wasn’t.

The previous assistant coach wasn’t particularly fond of me, nor was he nice, but Christopher LaBlanc is far fucking worse than Johnson would ever have had the nerve to be.

“Are we going to sit here and run our mouths or practice?” I snap, shoving by them and leaping over the boards. Holden shoots me a disapproving look but follows me back onto the ice.

I try to focus in then, let practice race by easily—it’s always easy to me when it’s not LaBlanc. Holden seems better now, enjoying time with everyone.

But like a living nightmare, LaBlanc calls for Holden and me to stay for another half hour as soon as everyone leaves.

• • •

I’m late.

LaBlanc ran us into the ground after our evening practice Friday, since our games this weekend are Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. So I accidentally slept in. My body still feels like I was in a car wreck and not skating until I threw up.