I peeled off gloves, chest pad, jersey—steam curling off fabric.Equipment clanged into my locker.When the last strap cleared, I sat on the bench, elbows on knees.The pressure opened like a valve I’d been clamping shut since Harper first called my transfer meeting.
Dad’s career highlight reel flashed in my head—rookie year hat trick, then the slow fade after the ACL tear, beer cans on the coffee table.He never said it, but I knew: keep playing well, or life starts playing you.
I ground the heel of my palm into the ache in my shoulder.
“Carter.”Harper’s voice cut through the clatter.I jerked upright; she stood outside the trainers’ room, arms crossed over a down vest.
“Need a word,” she said.
I grabbed a towel, wiped sweat from my face, and followed.
The trainers’ room smelled like antiseptic and menthol.Harper leaned against a treatment table, studying something on her tablet.She thumbed the screen off before speaking.
“Good adjustment in the second period,” she said.“Still rough edges, but”—she exhaled through her nose—”you’ve earned the start Friday.”
Heat hit the back of my neck.“Thank you, Coach.”
“It’s provisional.”She fixed me with that x-ray stare coaches perfected.“Keep numbers tight in film and don’t dog weights, or Decker suits up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Team needs stability in the crease.Think you can give it to them?”
“I can.”
She nodded once, pushing off the table.“Grab lunch, hydrate, see Dalton if that shoulder nags.”
“It’s fine.”
Her expression said she heard the lie.“Athletic training opens at eleven.Use them.That’s not a suggestion.”
“Yes, Coach.”
She left.I stood alone, the wordstarterpulsing behind my ribs like a second heartbeat—equal parts relief and threat.Opportunity and warning, same coin.
I returned to the locker room as Ryan—already out of the shower—was putting on deodorant.“You look like you got called to the principal’s office,” he said.
“Harper named me provisional starter.”
“Hell yeah.”He slapped my damp shoulder pad—hard.I winced.
He saw it.“Injury?”
“Bruise.I’ll get ice.”
“Hit Dalton for stim.Harper loves her data, but she loves healthy goalies more.”
“Noted.”I untangled the rest of my base layer and stepped into the showers.
Hot water hammered the knots in my back.I closed my eyes, letting the roar drown everything: Harper’s warning, Dad’s ghost stories, the mental whiteboard where I tracked save percentage.
When I came out, towel around hips, Javier sat lacing shoes.He glanced up.
“Good battle,” he said.That was it—no smile, no critique.Respect in two words.
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
He finished tying his shoes, then straightened.“Caribou’s first line loves back-door seams.Stick lifts, no whistles.Heads up.”
