Chapter 1: The Rule

The first rule of playoff week was simple.

No distractions.

Logan Mercer had written it on the whiteboard in the Havenbrook locker room that morning, right under the schedule for practice, film review, lifting, and team dinner. He had written it in thick black marker, large enough that every guy on the roster would have to look at it before stepping onto the ice.

Still, somehow, half the team had decided to ignore it before practice even ended.

“You’re telling me,” Jace called from the blue line, coasting backward with his stick resting across his shoulders, “that if the girl of my dreams walks into the stands Friday night, wearing my jersey, I’m supposed to look away?”

Logan shot the puck so hard it cracked against the boards behind the net.

“Yes.”

The guys laughed.

Jace grinned wider. He was one of the fastest forwards on the team, which unfortunately made him think he was funny too. “Cold, Captain. That is ice cold.”

Logan skated after the puck, scooped it with his stick, and turned back toward center ice. His breath came out in pale clouds beneath the rink lights. Sweat had already soaked through the collar of his practice jersey, but his legs still felt strong. Good. They needed to feel strong. They had three days until the championship game, and he did not have time for jokes, drama, or anybody’s romantic crisis.

Especially not Jace’s.

“You want to fall in love?” Logan asked. “Do it after Saturday.”

Owen, the goalie, lifted his mask and leaned against the crossbar. “What about texting? Is texting a distraction?”

“Yes.”

“What about liking a picture?”

“Yes.”

“What if she likes mine first?”

“Still yes.”

“What if she’s really hot?”

Logan stopped near the circle and stared at him.

Owen put one gloved hand up. “Got it. No pictures.”

More laughter bounced off the glass.

Logan did not laugh.

He had learned a long time ago that games were not won because a team felt good. They were won because a team stayed sharp when it was easier to be careless. They were won in early mornings, in ugly drills, in the extra lap after everyone else thought practice was done. They were won by guys who understood that focus was not a personality trait. It was a choice.

And Logan Mercer chose it every day.

Coach Ramsey blew his whistle from the bench. “Again. Mercer’s line, run it from the neutral zone. Clean passes this time. I want speed, not poetry.”

“Thank you,” Logan muttered.

Jace skated past him. “You know, some people use poetry to attract women.”

Logan shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “Some people use defense to win championships.”

“That sounds lonelier.”

“It sounds effective.”

The drill restarted.

For the next twenty minutes, Logan got what he wanted. No joking. No sloppy passes. No lazy turns. Just blades slicing through the ice, sticks tapping, pucks snapping from tape to tape. The sound of the rink settled him in a way almost nothing else did. The scrape of skates. The sharp clap of a shot. The low hum of the overhead lights. It all felt familiar, ordered, controllable.

He liked controllable.

Control meant nobody could say he had wasted his talent. Control meant no one could accuse him of not wanting it enough. Control meant that when people looked at him, they saw the captain, the athlete, the guy who could carry a team through pressure.

They did not see anything underneath.

That was the point.

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, most of the guys bent over their sticks, breathing hard.

“Good,” Coach Ramsey said. “Better. Not perfect, but better. Hit the showers, then film in thirty.”

The team started toward the boards, helmets tucked under arms, voices rising again now that practice was over.

Logan stayed behind.

He lined up five pucks near the right circle and took shots until all five hit the back of the net. Then he collected them and did it again.

Shot. Net.

Shot. Net.

Shot. Post.

He frowned.

Again.

“You know the puck doesn’t owe you an apology, right?”

The voice came from somewhere near the bench.

Logan turned.

A girl stood just beyond the boards, holding a phone, a lanyard, and a Havenbrook Athletics folder against her chest. She had dark blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a cream sweater under a navy jacket, and the calm expression of someone who had wandered into the wrong place but had no intention of admitting it.

Logan glanced at the empty rink around him, then back at her.

“Practice is closed.”

“I’m not here for practice.”

“Then you’re lost.”

“Actually, I’m Avery Blake.” She lifted the lanyard like it explained everything. “Student media assistant. Athletic department. Team promotion. Social content. All those words they probably put in an email you didn’t read.”

Logan stared at her.

He had read the email. He had skimmed it. There was a difference.

Behind him, Jace appeared at the open bench gate, towel around his neck and grin already forming. “Please tell me you’re here to make Mercer do one of those fun team videos.”

Avery looked past Logan to Jace. “That depends. Is Mercer the one who looks like he wants to sue the ice?”

Jace’s grin turned delighted. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”

Logan looked at him. “Locker room.”

“I was just leaving.”

“You stopped.”

“I’m leaving emotionally first.”

“Now.”

Jace backed away, still smiling. “Good luck, Captain.”

Logan waited until he disappeared through the tunnel before he turned back to Avery.

She was still standing there, eyes bright, mouth curved like she was trying not to laugh.

He did not like that.

Not because she was laughing. People laughed around him all the time. Teammates, fans, strangers in coffee shops who thought his silence was mysterious instead of practical. He was used to it.

He did not like that he almost wanted to know what she found funny.

“So,” Avery said, opening the folder, “I’m supposed to get some behind-the-scenes content this week. Short interviews, a few practice clips, maybe some captain quotes before the championship. Nothing painful.”

“I’m busy.”

“I assumed. Most people skating alone after practice are either busy or emotionally haunted.”

He blinked.

She smiled. “I’m guessing both?”

“I don’t do interviews during playoff week.”

“Good news. It’s not a real interview. It’s more like promotional content.”

“That’s worse.”

“Only if you’re bad at it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Avery glanced down at the folder and flipped one page. “Logan Mercer, team captain, senior, leading scorer, terrifying work ethic, allergic to smiling.”

“That’s not in there.”

“No, that last part was field research.”

He skated closer to the bench, stopping a few feet away. Up close, he could see the faint pink on her cheeks from the cold rink air. She did not look nervous. Most people were at least a little nervous when they approached him during game week.

Avery Blake looked like she had already decided he was not as scary as advertised.

That irritated him more than it should have.

“Talk to Coach,” Logan said.

“I did.”

“Talk to the athletic director.”

“I did.”

“Then you don’t need me.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Actually, according to both of them, I very much need you.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m asking.”

“I heard social content.”

“That could mean anything.”

“It means distractions.”

Avery studied him for a second. “Is that your favorite word?”

“This week, yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It isn’t interesting. It’s necessary.”

“Right. Because if someone asks you what your favorite pregame meal is, the championship falls apart.”

“It’s not about one question.”

“Then what is it about?”

The answer came too quickly in his head.

Everything.

It was about the team getting loose when they needed to tighten up. It was about guys checking their phones instead of their assignments. It was about cameras turning athletes into performers instead of competitors. It was about pressure, and noise, and the thousand tiny ways people lost focus before convincing themselves it did not matter.

It always mattered.

But he was not explaining that to a girl with a folder and a half-smile.

“It’s about winning,” he said.

Avery nodded slowly. “And you think winning requires being miserable?”

“I think winning requires discipline.”

“That was a very captain answer.”

“Good.”

“It was not a compliment.”

Logan narrowed his eyes.

She held up both hands, folder pressed flat to her palm. “Look, I’m not here to ruin your championship. I was assigned to the hockey team for the week because apparently ticket sales are up, alumni are watching, and the school wants people online to act like Havenbrook hockey is a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“Then maybe let people see that.”

“They can come to the game.”

“They do. But now people also care about the story around the game.”

Logan looked toward the tunnel where the last of his teammates had vanished. “The story is simple. We play. We win.”

Avery’s expression softened for the first time. Not pity. Not exactly. More like curiosity.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it.”

“No nerves? No pressure? No final season emotions? No big captain speech about brotherhood and sacrifice?”

“No.”

“You are a dream for media.”

“I’m not here for media.”

“No,” she said, almost to herself. “You’re here to punish pucks.”

He should have walked away then. Practice was over. Film started in less than thirty minutes. He still needed to shower, change, grab water, and tell Jace to stop flirting with anyone holding a camera.

Instead, he stayed where he was.

Avery tucked the folder under one arm and pulled out her phone. “I need thirty seconds today.”

“No.”

“Fifteen.”

“No.”

“Ten, and I will ask the easiest question in human history.”

“No.”

“Are you always this flexible?”

“Yes.”

She laughed then. Not loudly. Not in a way that tried to pull attention from the room. It was quick and warm, and it slipped through the cold air before Logan could stop himself from noticing it.

That was dangerous.

Not the laugh itself. The noticing.

His fingers tightened around his stick.

Avery looked down at her phone and tapped the screen. “Fine. No video today. I’ll call that progress because you spoke in full sentences.”

“We’re done?”

“For now.”

“For now?”

She slid the phone into her jacket pocket. “I’m assigned to the team all week.”

Logan went still.

All week.

The words landed harder than they should have.

He had expected a quick visit. A clipboard person. A few photos. Someone who would disappear once he made it clear he was not interested. But Avery Blake did not look like she planned on disappearing. She looked comfortable already, standing there by the boards like she had every right to step into his carefully controlled week and start moving things around.

Coach Ramsey appeared at the tunnel entrance. “Mercer. Film in twenty.”

Logan did not take his eyes off Avery. “Coming.”

Avery gave Coach a small wave. “I’ll be there too.”

Logan finally looked at her again. “Film?”

“Behind-the-scenes coverage,” she said, too innocently. “Very important. Big deal. People care about the story around the game, remember?”

He exhaled through his nose.

She smiled. “See you in twenty, Captain.”

Then she turned and walked toward the tunnel, ponytail swinging, folder tucked against her side, as if she had not just become the most inconvenient part of his entire week.

Logan stayed on the ice a moment longer.

The rink was quiet now. Just the lights, the cold, and the faint echo of his teammates somewhere beyond the walls. He looked down at the puck near his skate, then back toward the tunnel where Avery had disappeared.

No distractions.

That was the rule.

And somehow, before the week had even started, Logan already knew Avery Blake was going to test it.