(Dawn & I are sleepy. CLICK HERE to see what happened yesterday.)

Colorado State Student Services Building

Aurora practically drags herself up the stairs after pulling two all-nighters at the lab, her only escape to get food and a quick shower. Her bag thuds on the ground behind her, the only things inside being her phone and a half-eaten sandwich. Having had no luck finding Bryce to talk with about Jennifer and Chris, she settles for her only option. Stepping out of the stairwell, she can already hear her brother and Thomas talking from their room. The door is wide open, but slams shut to muffle their voices. Aurora considers going back to her room even though it has felt like a meat locker during her last few stops. She is about to return to the stairwell when a door below her is kicked open and a couple begins arguing at the top of their lungs. Not wanting to push through the spat, she resigns herself to dealing with whatever crazy scheme Apollo and Thomas are working on.

Taking off her lab coat, Aurora walks down the hallway, but stops at the sensation of someone watching her. Gradually turning around, she catches a flicker of movement in a cobweb-covered window. Inching closer, she finds a moth trapped in the sticky strands that get tighter around it. With no spider to eat it, the insect continues to thrash until it falls to the floor and flaps its useless wings. Aurora bends down to pick up the tiny creature, but leaps back when a lizard darts between her legs to snatch up the meal. Hearing footsteps behind her, the tense woman gets out of the way of a gasping student, who is desperately trying to recapture his runaway pet.

Muttering about needing to drink less coffee, Aurora heads for the room and prepares to knock on the door. Hearing the argument inside, she sighs and settles for slowly entering instead of announcing herself. Her presence is ignored by the two scowling roommates, who have moved to their beds. Old newspapers are spread on the floor and there are printouts pinned to the walls, which once held amusing and raunchy posters. Aurora notices lengths of yarn running from one clipping to another, but there is no pattern to the connections. Scanning the room, she is disappointed in finding no sign of alcohol, which would help explain the tempers and mess that is before her.

“I take I you didn’t hear that Chris disappeared,” Aurora says as she lets the door close behind her. She freezes when two pairs of bloodshot eyes meet her arrival, neither one blinking for a few seconds. “Then again, I guess you have. Bryce wasn’t around, so I figured I would come here to talk about it. Kind of surprised that Harvey isn’t with you too. Unless you drove him away with whatever this is.”

“Let me explain it before you sabotage my argument,” Thomas snaps, throwing his pillow at Apollo. Hopping to his feet, he wavers until the sudden lightheadedness passes and he is no longer afraid of falling. “To be fair, we agree that there is something here. Not so much on what to do. Oh, this has nothing to do with Jennifer or Chris. Really confused on how the rink could have melted so quickly. Anyway, this is about your shared dream. Apollo finally told me a detail that got me thinking. Specifically, about who this mysterious Mrs. Addison is. To keep things to the point, it was a year after we were born, but there was a Dawn Addison who lived in New York City and had a golden eye. I showed your brother a picture and he says that this woman is exactly who is showing up in his dreams. Only she ran a hotel and had nothing to do with a school.”

Apollo holds up a picture and hands it to his sister before grabbing another article. “I’m arguing that we might have heard the name or seen something about her. The woman became an urban legend after her hotel called Heaven’s Nest collapsed. She was inside and wasn’t one of the few survivors. The place wasn’t very far from where we grew up, Aura, so it isn’t a stretch to think we’ve had more exposure to her than others. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t deny that this woman is in our dream. The resemblance is perfect and even the behavior matches the stories that tell of her being eccentric. After the accident, an office who was trying to arrest her for murder said Dawn Addison was like a living dream that had a flimsy relationship with reality.”

“That has to mean that she jumps into people’s heads!” Thomas blurts out as he picks up a pile of papers. He thumbs through them until he reaches an article that has a picture of Gemma Cooke in her uniform. “There’s too much weirdness here for it to normal. Dawn’s body was supposedly cremated, but nobody knows for sure. This woman vanished a few months after the accident if you can even call it that. Every explanation for the hotel collapsing has holes in it like no damage to the underground gas pipes and proof that the building was constructed to code. The materials were fine until the moment they abruptly broke with no warning whatsoever. Survivors even said that nothing was out of the ordinary until the floor went out from underneath them. It has to mean something.”

“Maybe that you’re either drinking too much or should consider writing a book,” Aurora replies while she takes a seat. Looking at the picture, she cannot avoid the fact that the woman is the same one from her dreams. “Say you’re right about Dawn Addison being in our heads. Why stay there for eighteen years? She hasn’t driven us to do anything other than jolt out of bed sweating. More than likely, our parents talked a lot about her and read about her, which we overheard. They were into spooky stories before we were old enough to speak, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they talked us about Heaven’s Nest around us.”

Refusing to admit defeat, Thomas goes to his wall and tries to find the article that he is sure will convince Aurora that he might be right. Unable to locate the page, he moves to the floor and checks to see if Apollo has moved his research around. Pausing to take a sip from his flask, the determined young man moves on to his computer and goes about printing out what he needs. His tongue sticks out as he searches for more information, each page falling to the floor until he remembers the tray. Grabbing the small pile, Thomas hands half of it to Aurora and the other to Apollo, both of them dropping the pages into a trashcan.

“Now, you two are just being mean,” he replies while reclaiming the printouts. Wiping some pencil shavings off the top page, he holds it out without getting too close. “There have been Dawn Addison sightings all over the place for the last eighteen years. Most of them take place in New York City, but there are others scattered about the state. Not to mention a few in Oregon, one in Alaska, and a handful on cruise ships around the world. They all talk about a woman with a golden eye that is there one second and gone the next. Even though it is so quick, people swear they’ve seen her. How are we to know that Dawn isn’t a ghost?”

“Because we’re sane and at least two of us believe in science,” Apollo calmly replies, his patience for the haunting story running out. Picking up his own research, he hands the thin stack of papers to his sister. “I’m thinking what you are. We might have heard about this woman when younger and she became our boogeyman. There’s nothing more to it than that because the supernatural doesn’t exist. Doesn’t matter if there’s a local place with the same name as the hotel.”

“Oh yeah, there’s that hotel and restaurant called Heaven’s Nest just off campus,” Aurora mentions with a chuckle. Her empty stomach rumbles at the thought of food, which causes her to blush. “Let me guess. Thomas wants to check it out to see if there’s a connection. Sounds pretty ridiculous, but I’ll agree to go along.”

“Great-” Thomas begins to say before he is silenced by a finger to his lips.

“Only because I’m hungry and you’ll be paying for the food.”

“Well, it’s kind of pricey.”

“Then, I’m not going.”

“Wait! What about a compromise?”

Ignoring Apollo waving his hands, Aurora grins and replies, “Very well. I’m willing to negotiate. Let’s hear your offer.”

(To move forward, one must know where they came from.)

Dow Hill, Kurseong

“I’m telling you that I haven’t been drinking,” Mr. Zalen insists as he hurries to his car. He searches for his keys while keeping his phone pressed to his ear, the pressure causing a mild amount of pain. “There have to be pictures out there. People were using their phones throughout the entire thing. I swear the ice started to break and the players started falling in. Those who tried to get out were crushed. Yes, I understand that you think it’s impossible, but I know what I saw with my own eyes. I haven’t touched those types of drugs in years, Larry. Well, what about the decapitation? No, I can’t explain it outside of an elaborate prank, but even then it wouldn’t make any sense. Can you just send someone here tonight? I know I’m only a scout, but maybe that newspaper you bought will be interested. Don’t patronize me, Larry, because I know something is going on here. Just send-”

Mr. Zalen’s final words are cut off when his neck is snapped from behind and his phone is kicked into the sewers. Coach Warner grunts as he lifts the corpse onto his shoulders and begins walking toward his car. Spotting a few lingering students, he shifts the body, so that it looks like he is helping a drunk friend home. He wanders about until the people leave and then quickly gets to his vehicle, a sense of being exposed making him twitchy. Once the trunk is open, he drops his victim inside and stares at it while thinking of a plan. Hearing sirens in the distance, he sighs and begrudgingly gets behind the wheel. The last thing he wants is to deal with the police and call in another favor, his list of contacts dwindling fast. He can see the cars in the distance as he pulls out of the parking lot, his lights off to avoid anyone seeing him in the darkness. It is not until he turns onto a road that will lead him to the lake that he relaxes enough to drive with more concern for his own safety.

“When did you get into the backseat?” Coach Warner asks, noticing a shadowy figure in his rearview mirror. Reaching into his glove compartment, he pulls out a candy bar and tosses it to his unexpected passenger. “Figure you’d be hungry after everything that’s happened. You know, I would have liked a warning that things would happen so soon after the break. Not that it matters now since I lost most of the team. Did we have to remove so many bystanders from the game?”

“It was unavoidable,” a female voice says, the words warped by the person having a mouth full of candy. A dainty burp shakes the windows and a foul stench of rotting flesh momentarily fills the car. “The parts keep running into those who want to take them away. Our influence doesn’t go further than the campus. Well, except for you and your contacts within the town, but those won’t help if the parts leave the area. It took so long to get them into position. Forgive me for being so impatient.”

“I can’t really blame you considering your condition,” the man admits as he stops at a red light. The crimson bulb bursts and releases a laser that cuts deep trenches in the cross street, which clears their path. “That was unnecessary and brings attention to us. I know you don’t worry about going to jail, but I’ve hidden enough bodies over the years to get more life sentences than I can count. Imagine if any of the ones I buried were dug up or one washes up on shore for once.”

A cold hand stretches out of the shadows, its wrinkled flesh sticking to the man’s sweat-covered skin. “You need to have more faith like the others. They know that I would never let that happen. My pets and friends will make sure that there is nothing more than . . . Well, absolutely nothing to find. Dead flesh is the best kind since the living stuff tends to kick and bite. Waiters get so offended when you order them and immediately chomp off a finger. Do you happen to have any more candy?”

“Yes, but try not to make a mess back there,” Coach Warner replies, handing three chocolate bars to the grinning shadow. He watches as a smooth-skinned hand snatches the food, the nails perfectly manicured. “I trust you and everyone else, but I feel like I’m the only one putting his neck in a noose. Thank you for assuring me that things are taken care of. Still, I’m going to be nervous as we get closer to the big event. Nobody warned me that it was getting so close, so I feel like I’ve been left out.”

“Oh, you have been because you’re the muscle.”

“That’s all I am to you?”

“I’m only teasing.”

“Sorry, but I didn’t find it funny.”

“Of course not since you forgot to laugh.”

The car swerves as the shadowy figure cackles, a cascading light flowing from its invisible mouth. With a chorus of caws, four ravens land on the moving vehicle and walk around the hood as if they are on stable ground. One wanders close to the windshield and experimentally pecks at the glass, which has a few small bugs stuck to it. The birds leave when the car comes to a stop in an empty parking lot, which is next to the lake. They remain in the trees where more ravens are resting and watching over the campus with glowing eyes. Coach Warner feels a chill run through his spine when all of their heads turn toward him, his paralyzed hand tightly gripping the door handle.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” the shadow promises with a yawn. The instant its mouth snaps shut, the doors fall off their hinges and Mr. Zalen’s body is ejected from the trunk. “See, I’m helping out. You need to be nicer to me since I could always put you back where I found you. Buried and burning and pierced and dying. Not a fun way to live, little pet. If it makes you feel better, I can tell you that I trust you to handle the dirty work. The others are too . . . fluffy for this kind of stuff. They are my sheep and you are my alligator. Everybody loves alligators, so now you’re happy again.”

“I guess I’ll take care of that body,” Coach Warner says, unsure of how to take the comparison. He stops when he is halfway out of the car and stares at where the ravens are devouring the corpse. “Thank you for helping. I’ll wait for them to finish and put the scraps in an incinerator that I have access to. Need to feel useful since I’ll be spending the rest of the semester answering questions. Again, I really wish we didn’t have to lose so many players. I understand the sorority and random people in the library, but this is more important. We had a chance at the championships this year.”

“Please get back in the car,” the passenger whispers in a friendly voice. The nervous teacher gets back inside and jumps when the doors reattach with a serpentine hiss. “None of that concerns me because it isn’t important. When we are done, you will have more than some silly trophy or belt. It might not be as amazing as a pretty banner, but it’s a close second. Still, you are part of something bigger than whatever else you hold dear. I don’t appreciate you complaining and making me feel guilty. It isn’t a fun emotion. Makes my tummy all twisted. Look, you can already see a knot by my bellybutton.”

Coach Warner grabs a water bottle and takes a drink, the liquid tasting bitter in his parched mouth. “I’m sorry for complaining. Again, nobody has told me what will happen after the big event. I was under the impression that my life will continue here. For that to be enjoyable, I would like to be in charge of a championship team and not badgered about the disappearance of my players. All I want is some sign that I’ll be rewarded for my actions, which I do not regret in the slightest. It’s only that this is beginning to wear me down.”

“Me too.”

“Then, we are on the same page.”

“Oh, I’m not reading anything at the moment.”

With a roar from the engine, the car lurches forward and barrels toward the lake. It bounces over the curb, which scrapes the undercarriage and knocks the muffler loose. Leaving a deep furrow in the dirt, the careening vehicle weaves around the trees that seem to bend and shift out of the way. As it comes to the edge of the steep drop that leads to the shore, the car hits its breaks and rolls. Lights flicker while the radio runs through stations until stopping on a commercial for a local carwash. Hitting the ground on its passenger side, the vehicle ejects Coach Warner along with his door. He bounces and skids across the pack ice, every landing met with the blast of an off-key tuba. Stopping at the edge of the frozen part of the lake, the terrified man remains curled in the fetal position.

“I believe I’ve made my point,” the shadow whispers as it gently grabs Coach Warner by the ankle. Dragging him back to shore, the figure is followed by a beam of moonlight that dances to an unheard tune. “Maybe later. Right now, we have a lot of work to do. There are still some nosy parts that need to find their way. What? Oh, I guess we can take a break and get something to eat. I promise no mushrooms this time, but only if I get to drive. What does having a license have to do with anything?”

(Can’t figure out a ghost from a phantom without yesterday’s post.)

Kenyon College

Coming fast around the other team’s net, Chris hits the puck and curses when it gets blocked by the goalie. One quarter into the game and he has only scored once, which has been his worst performance all year. Unsure what is going on, he moves back to let his teammates handle the puck and scans the stands for the scout. He spots the lanky Mr. Zalen standing on the other side of the glass from Coach Warner, both men watching him intently. Glancing at the scoreboard, Chris is thankful that they are winning even though he has had very little to do with that. He knows one point is all it takes for a win, but he has missed passes and lost the puck far too many times for him to be proud. Forcing his ego away, he mutters about being part of a team and them needing him. Giving a final look to the scout, he goes around his own net and crosses over to steal the puck.

Passing to the captain, Chris rushes to get ahead of the defender who has been the bane of his existence all night. The taller player has practically manhandled him and the refs have done nothing more than a warning. While the crowd boos the decisions and shouts at the officials, the players know that everything is barely legal. Seeing the puck heading toward him, Chris moves faster and stretches his stick to catch it. Unable to shake his aggressive opponent, he is knocked into the boards and falls to the ice. Back on his feet and gasping for air, his head swims from the impact and he struggles to join the action. A whistle stops the game, the refs awarding a penalty shot to the opposing team.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” the captain says as he skates over to Chris. He watches one of the officials skate by, the man glaring at the pair. “Something funny is going on here, but we’ll figure out how to stop it. Coach Warner won’t let us down and none of us are willing to give up. Heard about you and the scout, so I hope that isn’t messing you up. We need everyone at their best now.”

“I’m trying, but that big guy keeps wailing on me,” Chris replies, his ribs aching from the last blow. Seeing that they are about to set up for the penalty shot, he follows the captain to the middle of the rink. “They aren’t calling anything on him, which means he’s going to continue beating me up. You and the others can focus on scoring. Let me keep the monster occupied because it looks like he’s their best defender. If he’s too busy shoving me around then he won’t be able to stop the rest of you.”

“Sacrificial lamb position, huh?”

“Not ideal, but at least it negates one of their weapons.”

“Try not to lose any teeth.”

“More concerned about my ribs.”

With matching grins, the two players move away from each other and wait for the shot to be taken. To their relief, the goalie blocks the puck and sends it skittering toward the captain. Chris waves that he is open, which causes the large defender to get closer. Moving to escape and putting on an act to make it look like he really wants the puck, he draws his opponent away from his teammates. Risking a glance at the captain, he gestures for a spot that he could feasibly reach, but has no intention of really heading for. Sensing that something is wrong, the larger player slows down and looks to his coach, who waves for him to stay on his opponent. Skating toward his own goal, Chris smiles when the defender tries to bait him back into the action. He skids to a stop and waits to see what his tense opponent will do, his own body relaxed and loose to allow for quicker reactions.

Dodging to the side, he lets the snarling player fly past him and hurries back to where the puck is sliding into the open. Hearing the cursing defender coming up behind him, Chris tries to pass to one of his teammates. Before he can hit the puck, his opponent’s stick catches his ankle and he crashes to the ground. He is thankful that he does not feel or hear the crunch of bone, but his head is aching from the jarring impact. Whistles go off around him, the referees unable to ignore such an obvious foul. As the smiling defender is put in the penalty box, Chris is helped to his feet and guided to where he can take his shot. Feeling blood in his mouth, he does his best to swallow the metallic taste instead of spitting onto the ice.

Tuning out the cheers and stomping feet, Chris focuses only on the goalie and trying to find a weak point. The bulky player makes it difficult to choose a target, especially since he has seen the man easily catch and block the puck. With no other ideas, he decides to fire his shot down the middle with all of his strength and hope for the best. Pretending to take careful aim at an exposed corner, he shifts his stick before swinging and gritting his teeth to hold back a shout. The sound of Chris hitting the puck echoes throughout the arena as the disc rockets across the ice. As it nears the goalie, it bounces and arches up to strike the player in the mask. People scream as his head is knocked off his shoulders and smashes against the glass divider. The body remains standing as whistles ring out and many in the crowd scramble to get pictures of the grotesque scene.

Enraged beyond reason, the visiting coach throws down his clipboard and jumps onto the ice. He immediately goes through the surface and plunges into the freezing water, his flailing form barely visible as it floats away from the hole. Cracks form around the rink and players from both sides begin to lose their footing. The home team’s goalie does his best to remain motionless, but the circular piece he is on suddenly flips. People with a higher vantage point take pictures of the panicking man stuck in the net, his padding preventing him from getting free. Others begin to fall in with only two managing to cling to the edges, their legs already turning black from frostbite. The referees continue blowing their whistles even after fall into the water at the same time, the spots around them turning red as if they have been liquified. Players that are off the ice do their best to stretch their sticks to those who are close to the edges, only a handful making it to safety.

Appearing to be unaffected by the chaos, Chris is still staring at the body when a familiar shout snaps him back to reality. He looks around to see the captain holding onto a spinning chunk of ice that is threatening to flip. Skating toward his friend, he jumps over the cracks that are spitting plumes of frost. Coming to the edge of the water, Chris reaches out a hand that is covered in slick ice that makes it nearly impossible to grab. Removing his gloves, he tries again and touches the captain’s fingers before the rink shifts again. The bobbing and pivoting chunk comes down and snaps in half, the terrified player getting torn in two by the razor-sharp edges of the hole.

Blood on his face and hands, Chris backs away and looks around to see if anybody else is on the ice. He watches one player bursts from the water, but they are immediately crushed by two fast moving pieces. Unsure of what to do, he notices that the defender has been trapped in the penalty box. The player bangs on the walls, none of which are the door that would normally let him out. Chris begins looking for a way to reach him, his simple plan being to use his stick to break the glass. Before he can move, he hears a sound that reminds him of a blender with the top off. A nauseating idea comes to his mind an instant before it becomes a reality and the shrieking defender is pureed from below. The gore explodes out the open top of the box, but everyone in the crowd is too focused on escaping the cracks that are spreading to the stands.

“Coach Warner!” Chris shouts, his voice cracking. Looking around for his mentor, he realizes that there is no way off the fractured ice. “I can use some help here. Not really sure what’s going on too. Kind of hoping I’m dreaming since none of this makes any sense. Hello? Anybody out there?”

A low rumble shakes the arena and Chris watches the last of the crowd rush out of the doors, which slam shut. Blood can be seen flowing beneath the ice and all of the holes emit bubbles that explode into puffs of snow. Another quake sends the damaged parts of the glass dividers toppling into the rink, their shards bouncing into the water. Unable to escape, Chris takes a seat in the middle of the rink and removes his helmet. He takes out his handwritten message and stares at it while his body becomes cold. Even when he hears the crackling return and become louder by the second, he remains sitting. He is prepared for the worst when the rink explodes into a roaring geyser that freezes to the ceiling, the faint silhouettes of bodies emblazoned on the crimson-hued ice.

(Looking for the exit? Trust me. This link is the right one.)

Gettysburg College

Sitting alone in the locker room, Chris turns the talent scout’s card over in his hand. He is still digesting the promise of a professional deal, but the idea of leaving school for a semester does not sit well with him. Even though he would finish out the year, he is unsure if such a deal is common or smart. The athlete pulls out a piece of paper that has been taped inside his helmet and runs his thumb around the stiff edges. He reads his plan to get a degree in case going pro never happened or he suffered an injury, the words bringing him comfort. Yet, Chris can feel a part of himself already screaming to take the deal. Picking up his stick, he examines every mark that he has earned on the ice. The fact that he is paying more attention to his gear than his studies comes to his mind, but he has never had trouble cramming at the last minute or passing a test with no preparation. It makes him wonder if losing a semester is that big a deal since he will be allowed to continue his studies.

“Even if it’s online classes, I can still get the degree,” Chris whispers to himself. Going into his locker, he pulls out his pads and starts putting them on. “On the other hand, I might not be able to do the field work to get my degree. Teaching was always going to be a backup since I was good at it. Although, I could become a coach. Not really sure what I would have to learn for that to happen.”

“For one thing, experience and the ability to study,” Coach Warner says as he steps out from behind the lockers. Removing his cap and clipping it to his belt, he struggles to hide the scowl on his face. “You don’t like studying, Mr. Garcon, which is a problem. Do you know how many books and manuals I read every week? The game is always changing, so I have to stay current with my knowledge. Dumb luck and common sense will only get you so far before someone with facts and true insight get in your way.”

“Sorry about that, sir,” the student automatically blurts out. Picking up his skates, he checks the blades to make sure they are sharp. “I was only considering my options. Mr. Zalen made a decent offer, but told me that I’d have to make some sacrifices. That’s if I want to head for the pros early, which he thinks I could do.”

“Do you believe him?”

“It’s possible, but I’m not sure it’s what I want.”

“Fighting between desire and logic, are you?”

“Not sure I understand.”

Coach Warner cracks a tiny smile before sitting on the bench across from his student. “I mean that you’re at a crossroads. You desire the shot at fame like all humans do. To be a professional athlete is your dream and it looks like you can achieve it. On the other hand, you’re not a stupid boy. You know how an injury can end it all and that’s if you reach the next level in the first place. These scouts always butter up those with even a bit of talent because they get a finder’s fee. We both know this fact. So, the logic side of your brain is telling you that you should stay the course.”

Nodding his head, Chris grabs his helmet and stick before getting up to leave the locker room. He is surprised that Coach Warner remains sitting, so he quietly returns to his bench and meets the man’s steely gaze. A distant voice can be heard as announcements are made to the gathering crowd, most of them coming to the game out of school pride instead of interest in the sport. Thinking about all of the people who cheer for every little thing causes Chris’s face to flush with mild anger. Having loved hockey since his childhood, he cannot wrap his head around people coming to an event and not bothering to learn about it beforehand. He is most annoyed by the name calling and angry shouts from spectators that think they are helping by harassing the other team. It is the type of energy that he hates absorbing from the crowd, but he cannot stop to yell back and get them to be more positive.

“And you won’t escape that by going pro,” Coach Warner says as if reading the young man’s mind. Leaning forward, he pulls out an old photo of himself dressed in a familiar hockey uniform. “I learned the truth the hard way. A lot of negativity out there when all you want is to have fun. Entertain others and make them happy with your actions. Nothing wrong with that, but those in the stands don’t always see it that way. To some, you’re a puppet that they can control through their words. Makes me sick and it looks like it’s doing the same to you. Just another good reason for you to consider Mr. Zalen’s offer very carefully. It won’t be easy to come back from your decision.”

“Well, I might get lucky and have a bad game,” Chris argues with a smirk that is met with a frown. Averting his eyes, he focuses on a chalkboard that has the team’s current record written in big numbers. “I was joking, sir. I know you want us to try our best and that’s why we’re second in the division. Winning today means we take first place, so I won’t do anything to jeopardize that. Sorry if I’m already becoming a problem since my head isn’t right. That scout got to me and I’ll put him out of my mind. He’s something I can tackle later. Do you mind if I ask why you quit playing? I haven’t seen any sign of injury, so did you simply get bored with that side of the sport?”

“I will ignore how insulting that sounds,” the teacher says, an unmistakable edge to his voice. He stands and goes about cleaning up the locker room, his mind focused more on picking the perfect explanation. “My decision came after a near-death experience eighteen years ago. I was in an accident that killed a lot of people. None of my teammates since they were practicing and was . . . acting like an idiot. I took the sport seriously, but I loved the adoration more than I should have. Well, I survived the accident and got out of the hospital to find that nobody really missed me. The world went on and forgot all the things I’d done. Wandered around for a bit and decided to teach. This is why I push for all of you to focus on your studies as much as the sport because it holds no loyalty to you. Doesn’t matter how good you are or how seriously you take it, the game, and life in general, can turn on you instantly.”

Shocked by the answer, Chris takes a final look at the scout’s card and tosses it into his locker. “Never thought about that. No offense, sir, but I think I’ll still talk to Mr. Zalen about my options. I respect your opinion and experience, which I will think about and even bring up during the conversation. To be honest, the chances aren’t high that I’ll go along. This will be more to see if I can get exactly what I want. I need to keep some kind of backup plan in case the game tosses me aside. Maybe they’ll have something that can help with paying for everything that my scholarship doesn’t cover.”

“Can’t fault you for trying to grab as much as you can,” Coach Warner admits, his right eye twitching slightly. Hearing a telltale cheer from the crowd, he checks his watch and realizes that it is almost time for the team to hit the ice. “Take your things and finish getting ready. I’ll be with you in a minute. Just need to get my own head in the game. The team won’t win if I’m thinking of something else. As far as this scout and going pro issue, you do what you think is right and I’ll respect your decision. Only thing I ask is that you keep me in the loop and come to me if you need help.”

“I promise, sir.”

“Great. Go tell the others that I’ll be joining you soon.”

With a smile of relief, Chris grabs his gear and rushes out the door to deliver his mentor’s message. Waiting for the sound of footsteps to vanish, Coach Warner heads for the locker and takes the scout’s card. He sniffs at it with disdain and holds it in his fingers, the sight of the thin object making his blood boil. Reading the scout’s home address makes him even madder, the city being on the other side of the country. For a second, he considers putting it in another player’s locker, but knows that will only cause confusion. Taking a deep breath to relax, he crushes the card in his hand and listens to a voice in the back of his head. He snorts to get it to be silent, a final noise making him think the internal specter gave him a raspberry.

“I was really hoping he would see us to a championship,” Coach Warner mutters before pulling out a lighter. He sets the card on fire and flicks it into a nearby sink, which turns on to douse the flames. “Looks like things are moving quicker than I was promised. Always knew her impatience would cause some trouble. Going to have to talk to the others about that. Nothing I hate more than being left out of the loop.”