The opening notes of the national anthem echo through the speakers—instrumental only, no singer. I plant my stick on the ice and remove my helmet, pressing it against my chest as I face the flag. The melody swells, grand and familiar, but all I hear is the absence. The missing voice. I've stood through hundreds of these, and I've never noticed before how empty it sounds without someone singing.
Without her singing.
Laura could make this anthem sound like something worth standing for. Her voice would fill every corner of this arena, would make twenty thousand people forget to breathe. She's supposed to audition for Evermore on Ice in less than twenty-four hours with half the skills she needs and zero confidence in herself because I haven't given her enough.
The anthem ends. I snap my helmet back on and skate to the face-off circle, forcing myself to lock in.
Focus, Hendricks. You can't help her if you lose your head out here.
The ref drops the puck, and the first period is a bloodbath. Brighton U came to play dirty, and they're targeting me specifically. Their coach must've watched film, must’ve noticed I’m the top scorer. They’re testing me, hitting me late, and talking trash in the face-offs.
“How’s it feel knowing your dad’s still the biggest star in your family?” their center sneers as we line up. “Must suck skating in his shadow every damn game.”
I don't bite. I win the face-off clean, snap it back to Brooks, and drive hard to the net.
We're tied 1-1 halfway through the period when I see my opportunity. Brighton's defenseman misplays the puck in the neutral zone. It bounces off hisstick and I'm on it like a shot. I push hard, my legs burning, Erik streaking up my left wing while Alex charges up the right. The ice opens up in front of me. I can see the goalie cheating to his left, overcommitting. I've got the angle, I've got the shot, I've got—
CRACK.
Something slams into my back. It’s hard, vicious, and sends me airborne. My stick flies from my hands. My face shield hits the ice first, then my shoulder, then I'm sliding, skidding across the blue line on my chest like a fucking rag doll.
The whistle doesn't blow.
I roll over, gasping, and see number 11, Morrison, standing over me with a shit-eating grin.
“Oops,” he says, not even pretending it was an accident. “Didn't see you there, princess.”
Princess.
That word. That fucking word coming out of this asshole's mouth, and suddenly I'm not here. I'm in that rec center parking lot watching Laura run. I'm outside her house at midnight, gripping her bag and begging her roommate to let me talk to her. I'm watching her flinch every time I get too close because she still doesn't trust me.
I'm on my feet before I can think, gloves already hitting the ice, grabbing a fistful of his jersey.
“Say that again,” I snarl.
Morrison laughs, dropping his own gloves. “What's wrong, princess? Daddy's little—”
He doesn't get to finish.
Erik comes out of nowhere like a freight train, shoving me aside and slamming into Morrison with his full weight. They both go down hard, and Erik’s immediately on top of him, throwing punches before Morrison can even process what's happening.
“That's what you get, you piece of shit!” Erik roars, landing a solid right hook that snaps Morrison's head sideways. Blood sprays across the ice as Erik getsanother hit in, then another. Morrison tries to cover up, but Erik's relentless, raining down blows until the refs finally skate in and drag him off.
“Steele! Back off! That's enough!”
Two refs have Erik now, pulling him backward while Morrison stays on the ice, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Erik's still trying to get at him, jerking against the refs' hold.
“You want some more?” Erik shouts at Brighton's bench. “Anyone else want to talk shit? Come get some!”
Alex appears at my side, chest-bumping one of Brighton's other forwards who's skating toward us. “Back the fuck up,” Alex warns. “Unless you want what your boy just got.”
I skate over to Erik as the refs finally get him under control. “Thanks,” I mutter.
He shrugs, wiping blood from his knuckles onto his shorts, still pumped full of adrenaline. “Don't worry about it.”
The refs are conferencing, pointing, reviewing. Finally, the head ref skates to center ice and makes the call.
“Number 11, Brighton—five minutes for boarding. Number 44, Covey—five for fighting, two for instigating.”
