Bob smirked at me. “Guess the man knows what he wants.”
The cold from the boards seeped through my blazer, but my cheeks were warm.
3
Hunter
Rubber, sweat, ice. Smelled the same as always. It should’ve been comforting to me, but tonight it crawled under my skin. First game as lead goalie. Not first start. But first game where my name was at the top of the lineup sheet in bold,Callahan (G1).
I sat on the bench in the locker room, elbows on knees, gloves dangling between my skates. Guys getting ready, tape ripping, sticks clacking, somebody’s playlist buzzing in the background. My chest felt too tight in my gear.
“You’re gonna chew through your mouthguard before the puck drops.” Mason’s voice cut through my head.
I glanced up. He was standing across from me, jersey half-pulled on, chin strap loose. Calm, always calm.
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“You’re vibrating,” he said. “Like, visibly.”
I shoved my mask aside. “I’m not nervous.”
He crouched in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. “Listen to me. You’ve done this all before, and you’ve been great at it. History repeats itself, remember that. I trust you. The guys trust you.All you have to do is go out there and save every attempt at goal.”
Even my laugh sounds shaky. “Easy as pie.”
“Exactly,” he said, slapping my shoulder. “I’ll make you a deal. Every save you make, I’ll go put one away in their net.”
My shoulders were still wound tight, but things were starting to loosen up. “Deal.”
The horn in the tunnel blew. Time to go.
We hit the ice to a wall of sound: Chicago fans had traveled, and they were loud. Our own crowd roared back, ready to believe the best in us after that disastrous opening game and the media storm that followed.
I hadn’t made one of Holly’s meetings this week. People were gonna talk. I didn’t see the point in training to be a puppet when there were more important things to practice. Like keeping pucks out of the back of my net, for instance.
The boards rattled under my skates as I slid out, cutting hard, testing edges. The crease looked smaller tonight. Or maybe I looked bigger. Hard to tell.
Theo skated past and tapped my pads with his stick. “Don’t blow it, Kelly-Ann.”
“I won’t if you keep the fuckers off my crease, Barbara.” We both laughed, and another boulder lifted off my chest.
We lined up for the anthem, and my heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. When the puck finally dropped, it felt like a starter’s pistol.
Chicago came out flying. First shift, they dumped it deep and forechecked like sharks. I tracked the puck, eyes sharp, legs coiled. The first shot came from the point—screened, heavy. I kicked it out with my pad, rebound cleared by Theo.
Okay. One save. In the books.
We got hemmed in for the first three minutes, my crease a war zoneof sticks and bodies. I caught a wrist shot through traffic, covered, and held on as two Blackhawks crashed the net. The whistle blew. My gloves trembled, but my head stayed up.
Mason leaned on his stick. “You awake now?”
“Wide awake,” I muttered. “You owe me, by the way.”
The next shift we flipped the ice. Mason broke up a pass at our blue line, turned it into a rush. He cut left, snapped a pass to Griff, who wired it far side. 1–0, Surge.
The crowd erupted.
I thumped my stick twice against the ice. One goal in the bank.
