I almost laugh. Almost. But it catches in my throat before it can make it out. The pain is still a little too sharp. Hockey is supposed to be my escape from the online scrutiny. But I can’t get my mind off it today.
Across the rink, Coach is watching us with that hawk-eyed focus she saves for days when something’s off, but she hasn’t decided who to punish yet. I can feel her gaze tracking my every pivot.
And I deserve it. I’m a mess today.
The puck flips toward me, and I swing for it too hard, sending it wide. Krista chases it down without a word, but I can feel the energy shift. I’m supposed to be leading this drill. Setting the pace. Instead, I’m dragging behind like deadweight.
My shoulders ache from sleeping wrong or maybe from stress. I can’t tell anymore.
And then the shouting starts. At first it’s muffled, barely audible over the scrape of blades and the whistle in Coach’s mouth. But then it sharpens, pulls into focus like a lens adjusting.
“Where’s your rich boy, Luna?”
“Guess the sponsorship deal didn’t cover loyalty!”
“Hey, influencer! Smile for the camera!”
I snap my head toward the boards.
Three guys in their early twenties are leaning against the glass. They’re wearing Lakeview sweatshirts and smug grins. One of them has his phone out. He’s filming. Or livestreaming. Probably both.
Beth freezes beside me. Maisie immediately starts skating toward them.
Coach blows her whistle with two sharp bursts. “Off the ice!”
We don’t move.
Sab and Jenna catch on and skate to our side. Krista mutters something under her breath I can’t make out, but it sounds like violence. Maisie pulls up directly in front of the glass, yanking her helmet off. “Come say that again without the Plexi, you pathetic little man-child.”
Coach storms over, her skates carving deep tracks behind her. “Out. Now.”
The guys laugh, loud and performative, like it’s a show. The one holding the phone cups a hand to his mouth and yells, “Watch your follower count, Luna! Oof. Too late!”
Rage is bubbling up inside me. A white-hot anger that only feels good because it temporarily diminishes the humiliation. I’m tempted to throw something through the glass, but it’s not like I could break it anyway. It’s way too thick.
Security arrives faster than expected. Coach must’ve radioed them. The hecklers are pulled away, still chuckling, like they got exactly what they wanted.
The damage, of course, is already done.
Back on the ice, the silence is worse than the shouting.
Coach calls us in, says something about resetting the drill, ignoring distractions, “game-face only from here on out.”
But it’s hard to focus when your insides feel like they’ve been sandblasted.
Beth gives me a gentle nudge as we skate back into formation.
Maisie throws a fake punch at me when Coach isn’t looking. “You good?” she asks softly.
I nod. It’s another lie.
The puck drops again. I chase it with dead legs and a heavier heart.
And when I look up at the stands, half-expecting him to be there, half-dreading it, Beau’s still nowhere in sight.
The dressing room is way quieter than usual. Everyone is walking around on eggshells near me as if they’re afraid one wrong word could break me. And they’re probably right. I know my girls have my back, but I can’t help imagining what they could be thinking.
What if they believe all the lies?
