"You are going to race him? On the ice? Mae. MAE. Do you understand how iconic that will be?"
"If she wins," Jace adds, though his tone suggests he has already placed a mental bet in my favor.
"When she wins," Sage corrects fiercely.
Etienne helps me pick up the last of my books, placing them in a neat stack that he carries himself since I no longer have a bag to put them in. He straightens, those storm-blue eyes finding mine.
"Think you can prove him wrong?" he asks quietly.
I look down the hallway where Rafe has disappeared. At the remains of my bag, scattered across the tile like the remnants of a life I am slowly leaving behind. At the books in Etienne's arms, my name written in careful handwriting on every cover because I could never afford to lose a single one.
I think about the ice. About the feeling of blades cutting through fresh surface, the wind against my face, the freedom of speed and precision and grace. About the calluses that used to line my palms and the joy that used to fill my chest.
I think about the girl I used to be.
And the woman I am trying to become.
I simply smile and shrug.
"One way to find out, I guess."
CHAPTER 13
The Scrimmage
~RAFE~
"MOVE!"
I bark the order across the rink, my voice bouncing off the plexiglass barriers and echoing up into the steel rafters. My legs are burning, my lungs are screaming, and the puck has just slipped out of our possession for the third goddamn time in ten minutes.
This is unacceptable.
I dig my blades into the ice, sprinting down the left side with everything I have. The rookie who stole the puck is fast, I will give him that, but he is sloppy with his handling. Telegraphing every move with his shoulders like he is sending a written invitation for me to intercept.
I close the gap in three strides, cutting across his path with a sharp turn that sends a spray of ice shavings into the air. My stick connects with the puck at the last possible second, stealing it back from his control just before he reaches the offensive zone.
The stop brings me dangerously close to the boards. Close enough that my shoulder pads scrape against the plexiglass with a sound that makes my teeth clench. But the puck is mine again, and that is all that matters.
I pass it to Cal in one fluid motion, sending it skimming across the ice toward his waiting stick.
Cal catches it cleanly, pivoting on his left skate to face the goal. He winds up for a shot, the motion powerful and practiced, his whole body coiling like a spring before releasing.
The shot is good. The angle is good. The power is good.
But the rookie defenseman reads it like a billboard advertisement, sliding into position and swiping the puck off Cal's stick before it ever leaves the ground.
"Fuck!"
Cal's curse carries across the rink as the rookie takes off in the opposite direction, racing down the ice with the kind of gleeful energy that only someone who has never been crushed by a real game can muster. His teammates are screaming encouragement, and our side is scrambling to recover.
I spin, pushing my legs to close the distance, but I am too far out of position. Cal is chasing, too, his skates cutting sharp arcs across the surface, but we are both several strides behind.
"Laurent!" I shout toward the goal. "Stay on your fucking guard!"
Etienne turns to face me through his helmet, and even through the cage, I can read his expression perfectly clearly.
It says, in no uncertain terms, go fuck yourself.
