I drag in a breath, mutter a quietfuck it, and knock.
The door swings open instantly.
Coach Hayes’s arms are crossed, like he was standing there, waiting. He’s wearing the look that usually comes right before he makes us run suicides until someone pukes—and I’ve got a bad feeling that someone is about to be me.
“Ryan,” he says, stepping back just enough to let me in.
“Hi, sir,” I manage, my voice an octave higher than usual.
He blinks. Not a big reaction, but enough to make me second-guess myself. I’ve never called himsirbefore, but I don’t exactly thinkCoachfits the situation either.
Christ, this is awkward as hell.
I step into the house, trying not to visibly sweat. The place feels… weirdly homey. Framed hockey jerseys line the hallway, something garlicky and delicious floats from the kitchen, and pots clink softly in the background.
Then I hearher.
Isabella’s voice, light with laughter, carries from the next room. The sound eases something in my chest, at least for a second. And when she steps into view, her dark curls pulled back, cheeks flushed from whatever she was just doing, the nerves settle a little more.
“Hey,” she says, smiling as she moves toward me, looping her arm through mine. “Come on, we’re just setting up.”
I let her lead me toward the dining room, where Nathan is already at the table, scrolling through his phone. He barely acknowledges me at first, but when he finally does, he nods once. “What’s up?”
It’s not exactly a warm welcome, but it’s better than the silent treatment. I’ll take it.
“Not much,” I say, which is a fucking stupid answer, but whatever.
Mrs. Hayes glances up from the kitchen, smiling warmly at me. “Ryan. It’s so nice to have you here. Isabella, can you help me with the plates?”
Isabella squeezes my arm before slipping away, leaving me alone with Coach and Nathan.
I take a seat across from Nathan, who finally puts his phone down and raises an eyebrow at me.
“So,” I start, tapping my fingers against my knee. “How’s the season?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
Nathan gives me a look. “You’reonthe team.”
“Right,” I say, blowing out a breath. “Just trying to make conversation.”
Coach takes the seat at the head of the table, resting his forearms on the wood. “How’s school going?”
I sit up straighter. “Good. I mean, I hate gen eds, but I’ve only got one left next semester, so that’s something.”
Nathan smirks. “Which one?”
I groan. “History.”
Nathan winces. “Oof. Sucks for you.”
Coach shakes his head. “History’s important, Ryan. It teaches you not to repeat past mistakes.”
The way he says it makes me pause. Is that a general statement, or a direct fucking warning?
Before I can figure it out, Isabella and her mom return with the plates, and the air shifts as they sit down and we begin to eat.
The food isgood—garlic chicken, mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables. My stomach growls the second I take a bite, which earns me an amused look from Coach.
Conversation flows easier after that. Mrs. Hayes asks about hockey, Isabella talks about a project she’s excited about, and Nathan tells a story about one of our teammates getting nailed in the face with a full water bottle.
