My heart’s a mess, pounding with every pivot of her skates, every breath she sucks in between gritted teeth. I might not be on the bench. Might not be calling shots. But I’m still with them.
Still with her.
The first half is brutal.
The other team came to win, and they’re skating like it—fast, ruthless, tactical. They’ve got the height, the strength, the strategy. Our girls are fast, scrappy, and skilled, but even the best get knocked around when the rules blur.
Twinkle takes a hard shoulder to the boards.
Daisy goes down on a whip and limps off the track.
And Willow—fuck, Willow gets hit straight in the ribs by a blocker twice her size. She doesn’t stay down, but the way she hunches forward, just for a second, has my gut twisting.
When the halftime whistle blows, we’re behind by double digits. The crowd’s loud, but the bench is quiet. Winded. Bruised.
I don’t wait for permission.
I step through the staff gate and follow them into the locker room.
Coach Crusher is already rallying. “We’re not out. You hear me? They came out strong, but they’re getting cocky, leaving gaps. You’re not here because of luck. You’re here because you earned it.”
Daisy mutters something under her breath about needing oxygen and a new hip.
Twinkle throws her a bottle of water.
Coach keeps going. “We know how to fight. And that’s what we’re going to do in the second half. Grind. Every point.Every block. Play smart, not just fast. They don’t know how much heart this team has.”
The girls murmur, shifting, nodding. I can see it building again, that thread of belief.
When Crusher pauses to take a drink, I move.
Straight to Willow.
She’s leaned against the wall, stretching her thigh as though it’s no big deal that she’s probably hiding a cracked rib.
“You took a nasty hit out there,” I say, voice low so it doesn’t carry.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re holding your side.”
“It’s just sore.”
“Let me check, Will.”
She straightens up, clearly ready to brush me off, but I take a step closer. “Please. Just let me make sure it’s not fractured. Skating through pain like that isn’t tough—it’s dangerous. Especially with how dirty they’re playing.”
She hesitates.
I soften my voice. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’re the strongest person I know. But I’ve seen careers end on a second half like this.”
Her eyes flash with frustration. But not at me. At the idea of slowing down. Of being told no.
She finally lifts her shirt just a little, turning slightly.
My breath catches.
Angry bruising is already forming. A deep purple spreading across her left side.
