I shoved him off, gathered the puck, and outpaced him across the blue line. A defender came at me, and I stopped, spraying ice his way before changing direction, heading diagonally straight for the trapezoid.
A hand gripped my arm, but I shook him off. No penalty call. Figures. I was almost home free when someone cut in from the side, sweeping my legs out from under me. His knee slammed into mine, and a scream of pain lodged in my throat. My back hit the ice with a sickening thud, knocking the air out of me.
I was okay.
I had to be.
A whistle. Play stopped. Blurry figures hovered over me.
Yep, that future I told Danny about? It wasn’t this. I was an optimist. I’d always believed that what was coming had to be better than what had been. But now, unable to move, feeling the cold creep through my jersey, my pads… Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe nothing changed. Maybe some of us just rode the struggle bus and had to smile through it.
I forced a twitch of a smile as I tried to assure Ryder and the trainers who I could now see more clearly. They looked worried, but they shouldn’t waste it on me. I’d be fine. I always was.
CHAPTER THREE
FRANKIE
"Why didn’t anyone dance tonight?"
Lights flashed in my eyes, and before I even opened my mouth, I knew I should’ve said no. When Griffin asked me to do the post-game interview—again—instead of him, I should’ve told him that was a head coach’s job. But I knew exactly what he would’ve said in return: “I’m training you for my job one day, Frankie. Just do it.” Always gruff, but never without support. He pushed me to want more, to believe my gender didn’t have to hold me back in a sport dominated by men.
But tonight? Tonight, I didn’t want to be pushed.
I cleared my throat and leaned into the mic. The only reason we were getting any media attention now was because our team had turned into the fucking Ice Capades. Something I secretly loved, though I could never admit it every time Griff grumbled about it. We were an internet sensation, thanks to Cassidy and Valentine. Not to mention Valentine’s sister.
Who would’ve thought dancing on the ice during games could bring in so many new fans? Not me, that was for sure. But I loved being shocked, loved the rush of an unexpected surprise. When something I never, ever saw coming knocked me flat on my ass.
Post-game press? That wasn’t one of those surprises. It was predictable. Boring.
“Do you know what song they’ll be dancing to in their next home game?”
No idea.
“Are they ever going to perform one of their routines at an away game?”
I couldn’t pretend to know what kind of plans were rattling around in Ryder Cassidy’s head.
“The last video posted got nearly ten million views. Any comment on that?”
Good for them.
I’d answered their questions, but they wouldn’t stop. Dancing this, sashaying that. It was like they’d completely forgotten there had been a hockey game tonight.
As much as I enjoyed watching the dancing, hockey was my thing. Hockey was everything—my reason for being in this arena, in this city, for every choice and move I’d made in my life.
I slammed my hand on the table and stood, towering over the seated members of the press. The room quieted, the buzz softening to a hum. I leaned in, the mic picking up my words as they spilled out sharp and irritated. “Stop. Talking.”
My bad mood had followed me from the moment I kicked Travis out of my house, through the game, and now into this damn press room. I was about to explode.
My hands clenched into fists, pressing into the plastic of the table. Slowly, I released them, stretching my fingers out, the tension in my body palpable. “You just watched a hockey game. Act like it.”
Before I even started, I knew this wasn’t right—treating the press like this, especially when they’d helped keep the team from being sold. But they needed to hear it.
“Tonight was a disaster. Sure, we won, but it came at a cost. I have a locker room full of guys back there who are battling a range of injuries. They planned on doing some Michael Jackson routine to entertain you, but none of them had it in them. They’re bruised, beaten, and completely exhausted after a brutal stretch of games. A winning streak, mind you. Do you really think I give a damn about what pop diva they’ll dance to next?”
It was the first home game where the guys decided to drop their routine, a decision that wasn’t made lightly. I’d watched the discussion unfold on the bench after Valentine went down.
A portly man from a local online magazine raised his hand.
