The Dating Deal

Nate

Coach Rawlings has three distinct veins in his forehead.

I know this because they only make an appearance when he’s looking at me like I’m the primary reason he’s going to die of a stress-induced aneurysm before fifty. Today, all three are pulsing in a terrifying, synchronized rhythm.

That is never a good sign.

I close the heavy office door behind me, the click echoing in the small space. The room smells like a combination of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of old hockey gear—the official cologne of Northwood University athletics. The walls are covered in framed photos of past glories: guys in navy and pink jerseys with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, faces flushed, mouths open in mid-celebration.

I’m in a few of those photos. I look happier in them. Or maybe I was just drunker.

"Sit down, Wilder."

Rawlings doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. He has this low, gravelly way of speaking that makes every syllable sound like it was dragged over a bed of hot coals.

I drop into the leather chair across from his desk, stretching my legs out in front of me and attempting a casualness I definitely don’t feel. "Morning, Coach. You’re looking particularly… vibrant today."

His stare doesn’t move. Not even a flicker.

I slowly pull my legs back in and sit up straight. Right. So we’re doing *that* kind of meeting.

Coach leans back, his chair creaking under his weight, and slides his phone across the mahogany desk with one finger. I already know what’s on it. I don’t need to look. I do it anyway, mostly because apparently I have a subconscious desire to step on glass just to see how much it hurts.

The photo takes up the entire screen.

It was taken Saturday night, right outside Sigma Chi after the football team’s victory party bled out into the street. Someone caught me standing on the hood of Carter’s truck with my shirt half-unbuttoned, a bottle of champagne in my right hand, and a girl in a red dress laughing against my side. There’s a smear of pink lipstick on my jaw, and my hair looks like a natural disaster that somehow won a scholarship.

Above the photo, the *Northwood Tea* gossip account had captioned it:

**NATE WILDER: NORTHWOOD’S FAVORITE BAD DECISION STRIKES AGAIN.**

Below it, the comment count was climbing toward a thousand. Some were heart eyes. Some were "goals." One was from a girl named Brielle who wrote: *He still has my earrings.*

I do not remember a Brielle. I also do not have her earrings. Probably.

Coach taps the glass. "This you?"

I blink at him, trying for a charming smirk that usually works on professors. "What, are we playing a guessing game? Is there a prize?"

"Nate."

The smirk dies. I shut my mouth.

The first-name thing always lands heavier than my last name. When he calls me Wilder, he’s pissed. When he calls me Nate, he’s trying not to be disappointed. And God, I hate disappointed. Pissed I can handle—pissed is a penalty box. Disappointed makes my skin feel like it’s two sizes too small.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Yeah. It’s me."

"Glad we cleared that up."

"In my defense," I add, because some deranged part of me has never met a silence it didn't want to ruin, "I wasn't driving."

Coach’s jaw flexes. Definitely not the right defense.

"Also," I continue, "my shirt was technically still on. Most of the buttons were holding firm."

Rawlings closes his eyes. For a long second, I wonder if I’m about to watch a grown man ascend directly to heaven just to get away from me. When he opens them, the humorless steel is back.

"Nate, do you have any idea how many calls I got this morning?"

I lean back slowly. "Four?"

"Seven."

"I’ve always been a popular guy."

"From alumni," he says, ticking them off on his fingers. "From the Dean of Athletics. From your academic advisor. From two boosters who apparently have enough free time to monitor freshman-run gossip accounts." He pauses, his gaze boring into mine. "And from your mother."

My stomach drops through the floor. I try to keep my face neutral, but Rawlings catches everything.

"My mom called you?"

"She wanted to know why her son was half-naked on the internet with champagne running down his chest. She seemed… concerned."

I scrub a hand over my mouth. Great. Fantastic. Love that for me. Mom doesn't get loud when she’s mad; she gets quiet. She sends one-word texts with aggressive punctuation. The last one I got was at 8:00 AM.

*Nathaniel.* Just my full government name and a period, like a knife pressed gently to the ribs.

"I was going to call her," I mutter.

"When?"

"After class."

"You don't have class on Mondays until noon."

I glance at the clock on his wall. It’s 10:08. "After I emotionally prepared for class."

Nothing. Not even a twitch of a smile. This man is killing my best material. He picks up his phone and sets it face-down on the desk like the photo itself is too stupid to keep looking at.

"This isn't funny, Nate."

"I know."

"Do you?"

The room settles around us, suddenly feeling half its size. Outside the office, I can hear the faint, distant scrape of skates on concrete—probably a freshman walking to the rink with his guards on, looking like a baby deer in war paint.

Coach folds his hands on the desk. "You’re one of the most talented players I’ve ever coached. You know that."

Usually, that would feel like a compliment. Today, it sounds like a eulogy.

"Thank you."

"Don't," he snaps. "You’re fast, you read the ice better than anyone on this roster when you actually use your head, and you’ve got hands most guys would sacrifice a kidney for. And for some reason, you seem determined to make people talk about every part of you except your game."

I look down at my knuckles. There’s a fading bruise over the right one from last weekend. Not the party—the weekend before. A guy from the lacrosse team decided he had feelings about me talking to his ex-girlfriend, and I decided I had feelings about him putting his hands on my chest. Everybody had feelings. Campus security had paperwork.

"Scouts are watching you this year," Coach says, his voice dropping into a register that makes my hair stand up. "You understand that? This is your draft-eligible window. This is the year that decides if you’re a pro or a 'what-if'."

"I know," I say, my voice finally losing the flippant edge.

"I don't think you do. You want to play after Northwood?"

My mouth dries. He knows the answer. I’ve wanted the NHL since I was six years old, sleeping with a mini-stick in my bed because my dad told me real players treated their gear like a limb. I wanted it before I understood how rare it was, or that one bad reputation could stick to you harder than a twenty-goal season.

"You know I do," I say.

"Then start acting like it. You are making yourself look like a liability, Nate. Not just to this team, but to anyone who might want to take a chance on you in the big leagues. Talent gets you in the door, but character keeps you in the room."

"I'm not a liability on the ice."

"No," he agrees, and the way he says it is the sharpest cut of all. "On the ice, you’re an asset. Off it, you’re a problem. And I don’t care how many goals you score—problems get managed."

My fingers curl around the arms of the chair. "Managed how?"

His gaze holds mine. No blinking. "If one more public incident crosses my desk, I sit you."

I don't move. Something cold slides beneath my ribs. "You’re benching me?"

"I’m warning you. Consider yourself on the thinnest ice possible."

I let out a harsh laugh. "Come on, Coach. It was a party."

"It was a pattern," he counters. "The party, the lacrosse fight, the video of you racing shopping carts through the student union at midnight, the girl crying outside your apartment, the noise complaints. I'm done, Nate."

I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek. He’s right, and that’s the part that stings. I’ve been treating college like it’s a four-year victory lap instead of a job interview.

"I don't need perfect," Coach says, his voice softening just a fraction. "I need responsible. I need you to stop making headlines for the wrong reasons. If people are talking about you, it better be because you put two in the net on Friday night."

"I can do that," I say quietly.

"I know you can. That’s why I haven't kicked you off the team already." He leans forward, his expression dead serious. "I’m not asking you to become someone else. I’m asking you to stop sabotaging the person you say you want to be."

There’s nothing funny to say to that. No quip that makes the truth feel lighter. I just nod.

"Practice at four," Coach says, dismissing me. "Be early."

"I'm always early."

"You were late Tuesday."

"Traffic was—"

"Nate."

"Early. Got it."

I stand up, my legs feeling a little shaky. Before I reach the door, he calls my name one last time.

"You’re too good to become a cautionary tale, kid. Don't let the noise drown out the talent."

I don't look back, but I nod once.

The hallway outside is colder than I remember. I walk toward the locker room, my phone buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Carter Grey, my best friend, linemate, and the man who was actually driving the truck I was standing on.

**Carter:** *U alive? If Coach murdered u, can I have your parking spot?*

I exhale a breath that’s half-laugh, half-groan.

**Nate:** *Not dead. But the parking spot is staying with me. I’m on probation.*

**Carter:** *Shit. Locker room. Now.*

I find Carter sitting in his stall, already half-dressed in his workout gear. He looks like the poster boy for "Golden Retriever Energy"—blond, athletic, and perpetually wearing a grin that suggests he just got away with something.

"How bad?" he asks as I drop onto the bench beside him.

"Benching bad," I mutter, staring at my skates. "One more 'incident' and I’m out. He mentioned the scouts. He mentioned my mom. He used my first name, Carter. He used *inflections*."

Carter whistles low. "Okay, so no more truck-top champagne showers for a while."

"No more anything," I say, the weight of the meeting finally settling in. "I have to be 'responsible.' 'Stable.' 'Respectable.'"

Carter grins, his eyes dancing. "Respectable Nate Wilder? Does that come with a sweater vest and a library card? Because I’m not sure the student body is prepared for that."

"Shut up," I say, but I can't help the small smile. "I'm serious, man. I can't blow this."

"I know," Carter says, his voice turning uncharacteristically serious for a split second. He claps a hand on my shoulder. "So we lay low. Focus on the season. No parties, no drama, no girls with lipstick and red dresses."

"Right. Easy."

"Totally," Carter agrees, though we both know 'easy' isn't exactly in our vocabulary. "Now, let's go hit the ice before Rawlings decides to come out here and check our pulses for signs of mischief."

I stand up, grabbing my gear. The tension in my chest doesn't disappear, but it shifts. I can't change what’s already on the internet, but I can change what happens next. No more headlines. No more disappointments. Just hockey.

At least, that’s the plan.