We hold the lead.
When the final horn sounds, I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, lungs on fire. The guys swarm me, slapping my helmet, yelling.
Coach catches my eye from across the ice.
He nods once.
Relief crashes through me so hard it almost knocks me over.
In the locker room afterward, the mood is lighter. Music blasting. Guys laughing. Rocky tosses me a towel.
“Told you,” he says.
I smile this time—just a little.
Later, back at the hotel, the adrenaline fades and the quiet creeps in.
I sit on the bed, phone in my hand, staring at Cecily’s name at the top of my messages. My thumb hovers.
I did what I said I’d do.
I proved myself.
But the win doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
The silence still presses in.
I flip the phone face down and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
I fixed my game.
I’m not sure I fixed anything else.
I shower longer than I need to, letting the hot water pound against my neck and shoulders until my skin’s red. The win still hums under my skin, the kind of buzz that usually carries me through the night.
It doesn’t.
Back in the room, the city noise seeps in through the window—cars, voices, something distant and alive. Rocky’s laugh echoes down the hallway somewhere, a door slams, and music starts up two rooms over.
I sit on the edge of the bed and dry my hair with the towel, then toss it aside. My phone’s right where I left it.
Face down.
I flip it over.
Nothing.
No text from Cecily. No missed call. No accidental reaction or emoji. Just the same thread, frozen in time.
No.
I read my reply again, like maybe I can go back in time and change it if I stare long enough.
I told myself I needed space. I told myself complications mess with my focus. I told myself she’d understand.
And maybe she did.
That’s the part that twists in my chest.
