Chapter 4 off the ice
Luka
The ice was the only place Luka's mind ever shut up.
Out there, everything was simple.
The puck moved.
He reacted.
A teammate called for a pass.
He passed.
A shot came at the net.
He blocked it.
No overthinking.
No expectations.
No college applications.
No conversations he didn't want to have.
Just the familiar sound of skates carving across ice and the sting of cold air filling his lungs.
For two hours every afternoon, hockey was enough.
Unfortunately, practice always ended.
Coach Reynolds blew the final whistle.
Players headed toward the locker room.
Luka skated one more lap before gliding toward the bench.
"Petrov."
Luka looked up.
Coach stood waiting.
"Good practice."
"Thanks."
"Your chemistry grade improve yet?"
Of course.
Even hockey eventually became about school.
"A little."
Coach nodded.
"Good. Scouts don't care how talented you are if you're academically ineligible."
Luka resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Everyone suddenly had something to say about grades.
Teachers.
Coaches.
Counselors.
Parents.
Especially parents.
Coach clapped him on the shoulder before walking away.
"See you tomorrow."
Luka headed toward the locker room.
He already knew what waited outside.
And unfortunately, he was right.
His father stood near the entrance.
Arms crossed.
Expression serious.
Typical.
Viktor Petrov looked like he'd stepped out of an old hockey magazine. Former professional player. Current youth coach. Lifetime expert in disappointment.
"Coach called."
Luka grabbed his bag.
"Okay."
"'Okay' isn't an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
His father's jaw tightened.
The familiar tension settled between them immediately.
It always happened.
Like muscle memory.
"Your chemistry grade dropped."
There it was.
Not:
How was practice?
Not:
How's senior year?
Not:
You played well.
Just grades.
Performance.
Results.
Always results.
"It's one assignment."
"It becomes two assignments."
"I'm fixing it."
"You better."
The conversation continued all the way to the parking lot.
By the time Luka climbed into his truck, his shoulders felt tighter than they had after practice.
He started the engine.
Then immediately turned on the radio.
Anything to drown out the conversation replaying in his head.
The drive home took twenty minutes.
Twenty quiet minutes.
Twenty minutes that should've been spent thinking about hockey.
Instead, his thoughts drifted somewhere much more annoying.
Emmy Moreno.
Which was ridiculous.
He barely knew her.
Technically.
Yet somehow he kept noticing things.
The way she organized everything.
The way she acted like carrying everyone else's problems was normal.
The way she looked completely different when she talked about medicine.
Most people lit up when they talked about things they loved.
Emmy came alive.
There was a difference.
Luka parked in the driveway and grabbed his bag.
The house sat quiet.
His mom wouldn't be home until later.
His father had another practice.
For a few hours, the place belonged to him.
Exactly the way he liked it.
Inside, a note waited on the kitchen counter.
Dinner's in the fridge. Love you.
Mom.
Always working.
Always trying.
Always making sure there was food even when she barely had time to eat herself.
Luka smiled slightly.
Then opened the fridge.
Lasagna.
His favorite.
At least one parent paid attention.
His phone buzzed.
A study group notification.
He almost ignored it.
Almost.
Instead, he checked it.
Emmy Moreno: Reminder. Bring completed worksheets tomorrow.
A second message appeared.
Harper: Is this a threat?
Emmy Moreno: Yes.
Luka laughed.
Actually laughed.
Alone in his kitchen.
That felt weird.
A third message appeared.
Noah Callahan: Define completed.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Emmy Moreno: No.
Luka shook his head.
Noah somehow managed to be exhausting through text messages.
Another message popped up.
Noah Callahan: I feel targeted.
Emmy Moreno: Good.
For some reason, Luka could practically hear her saying it.
The thought made him smile again.
Which was becoming a problem.
A serious problem.
Because lately, seeing her name appear on his screen had become something he looked forward to.
And that wasn't supposed to happen.
Not when college applications were looming.
Not when scouts were coming.
Not when hockey was supposed to be the priority.
Yet somehow Emmy had slipped into his thoughts anyway.
Like a song he couldn't stop hearing.
Luka carried his plate upstairs and settled at his desk.
Homework waited.
Calculus.
History.
Chemistry.
He stared at the chemistry worksheet.
Then laughed quietly.
Three weeks ago, he would've finished it without thinking.
Now he found himself wondering what Emmy would say about the questions.
Whether she'd approve of his work.
Whether she'd correct something.
The realization was embarrassing.
He wasn't the type of guy who cared what people thought.
At least he hadn't been before.
His phone buzzed again.
Another study group notification.
Emmy Moreno: SAT prep session Saturday. Attendance recommended.
Immediately:
Noah Callahan: Recommended sounds optional.
Emmy Moreno: It's not.
Noah Callahan: Tyranny.
Luka smirked.
Then typed before he could overthink it.
Luka Petrov: She's right.
The response came almost instantly.
Noah Callahan: Betrayal.
A moment later:
Emmy Moreno: Nice to know someone listens.
Luka stared at the message longer than necessary.
Then set his phone face down.
Nope.
Not doing this.
Not smiling at text messages.
Not becoming one of those people.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Tomorrow would bring another day of school.
Another practice.
Another study group session.
More pressure.
More expectations.
The same things it always brought.
Yet for the first time in a long while, Luka found himself looking forward to it.
Not because of hockey.
Not because of school.
Because somewhere between chemistry worksheets and study group meetings, a girl with color-coded notes had become his favorite part of the day.
And that realization was far more dangerous than any failing grade.
