By the third period, my blood is buzzing. I’m fired up in a way that has nowhere to go. My body’s ready. My mind’s screaming.
We lose by one.
When the horn sounds, I stay seated for a beat longer than everyone else, staring out at the ice like it might look back at me.
Tomorrow.
Saturday.
That’s my chance.
Back in the hotel room later, I sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing my team-issued sweats, skates long since kicked off. My phone rests in my hand, screen dark.
I don’t turn it on.
I already know what’s there.
Or what isn’t.
Cecily didn’t text me back. Not after the campaign. Not after my no. Not after anything.
I told myself that was the point. Less noise. Less distraction.
But sitting here, replaying the game in my head, watching the space where I should’ve been, it doesn’t feel like control.
It feels like I cut something out and expected everything else to fall into place.
Tomorrow, I’ll play.
Tomorrow, I’ll prove it.
I set my phone face down on the nightstand and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
This is my chance to make it right.
And for the first time since all of this started, I’m not entirely sure what “right” even means anymore.
Saturday comes fast.
I wake up before my alarm, heart already racing, the faint hum of traffic outside the hotel window reminding me I’m not home. My body feels wired, like it knows today matters even if my brain hasn’t caught up yet.
I shower longer than usual. Eat even though I’m not hungry. Lace my shoes slower. Everything feels deliberate, like if I rush any part of this, it’ll fall apart.
On the bus to the rink, the guys are quieter than last night. Focused. Westley sits across from me, legs stretched out, head back against the seat.
“You good?” he asks without opening his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. This time, I mean it.
At the rink, Coach doesn’t pull me aside. That’s the first sign. I dress with the team, pull my jersey over my head, and tape my stick. My hands don’t shake, which feels like a small victory in itself.
Warmups hit different today.
The ice feels faster. Sharper. Every stride feels like it matters. I take a few shots, bury one top shelf, then another. Nothing flashy—just clean.
Scott skates past me. “There he is.”
I nod, but I don’t smile.
