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“That was your party,” Berwyn says. “Your house, your teammates. You stood in your own kitchen and said something to this kid that got you punched, then laughed about it in front of the room, then posted a little handshake emoji so everybody could tell you how big you are.”

“Coach—”

“I’m not finished.” He turns. “Kennebeck.”

“Yes, Coach,” I say, meeting his eye.

“He put a hand on your face Friday, and I heard about it Monday. He said something to you Saturday, and I heard about it Sunday. Both times, you found out what he wanted, and then you handed it to him.” He leans back onto his knuckles. “You want to know the difference between the two of you? He plans it. You just do it. Which means you’re the one who ends up on tape.”

I look at the desk.

“Here’s what’s happening,” Berwyn says. “Both of you are off the ice for a week. No captain’s skates. You’re not in that locker room and you’re not on my ice, and if Dannebrog lets either of you on, he’s got a problem with me too. You can lift. You can run. You can sit in your rooms and think.”

A week, while every other center in this program skates.

“And both of you are in study hall Tuesday and Thursday nights, seven to nine, third floor of the library, with the sign-in sheet.”

“I don’t have academic hours,” Greeley says.

“You do now.” Berwyn picks up a pen and writes something. “Same nights, same table. You’ll sit across from each other for four hours a week, and you’ll be fine, because I’m telling you to be fine.”

“Coach, respectfully, I don’t think—”

“I don’t care what you think.” He sets the pen down. “I’ve got one second-line center spot and two guys who want it, and I’d rather have neither of you than have this. So here’s your truce. It isn’t a handshake, because I wouldn’t believe it. It’s a table. Sit at it. Do your work. Don’t speak to each other if that’s easier.” He looks between us. “And if there’s one more thing—one, a word in a hallway, a shove in a drill, a group chat—I stop putting your name on the sheet. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach,” Greeley says.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Get out.”

Out in the hallway, Greeley has his hands in his pockets, and he’s smiling. The office face is gone.

“Well,” he says. “That was fun.”

I keep walking.

“Hey, Kenny.” He falls in beside me. “Serious question. Did that feel like a win to you? Because I came out of there with exactly what you came out of there with, and I didn’t have to do anything but get hit.”

“You got called out.”

“By one guy, in a room with no windows.” He shrugs. “You know who else heard it? Nobody. You know what everybody did hear about? You, swinging on a teammate at his own house.” He clicks his tongue.

I stop at the stairwell door.

“Three weeks until official practice,” Greeley says, “and you lose one of them. So do I. But I’ve been here two years, and Berwyn’s watched me play four hundred times.” He pats my shoulder on his way past. “You? He’s only seen you on video.”

He walks out.

On Tuesday, I’m at the library at seven. There’s a sign-in sheet on a clipboard at the end of a long table by the windows, and a grad student in a hoodie who checks names off, puts her headphones on, and doesn’t look up again. There are six of us: two football players, a girl from the swim team, a guy I don’t know, Greeley, and me. Berwyn called ahead. There are two chairs left when I get there, across from each other, and Greeley is already in one.

I sit down and open my laptop. For forty minutes, it’s the quietest place I’ve been since I got to Woodbury. Nobody laughs, nobody talks, somebody’s pencil scratches, and at the other end one of the football guys is asleep on his arm. It’s not bad, actually. I get through some homework.

Forty minutes in, Greeley’s phone lights up on the table. He reads it, smiles, types something back, and leans across the table. “Heads up. My friend’s coming to study.”

I keep my eyes on my laptop.

“You know her,” he adds.