"Oh God, Mae, be easy on them." She jerks her chin toward the rookies who are waiting in formation. "The moment the commentary starts coming out, you are going to turn into Bitch Mae. I have seen it. It is not pretty."
I grin.
"I will try to be easy. Maybe."
Archie glances at Sage, uncertain.
"Should I be worried?"
Sage exhales through her nose, the sound carrying the weight of experience.
"All I will say is the Mae you see in class is a completely different Mae on the ice. Watch the shift."
I roll my eyes but do not argue.
Because she is not wrong.
There is a version of me that exists only on ice. A version that does not second-guess herself, does not shrink, does not apologize for taking up space. She is sharp and focused and merciless in her pursuit of perfection. She reads the ice the way other people read books, seeing patterns and possibilities where others see only a frozen surface.
I have not let that version of me out in years.
Not since the day my parents told me I was a disgrace. Not since the funding dried up and the rink time disappeared and the future I had built my entire identity around crumbled into dust. I locked that girl away because letting her exist meantacknowledging what I had lost, and the grief of that loss was too enormous to carry alongside everything else.
But the ice is here.
And I am standing on it.
And for the first time in four years, it feels like coming home.
I skate into position at center ice, Cal's stick resting in my grip with a weight that is different from what I am used to but manageable. My competition skates hug my ankles with familiar precision, responsive and tight, the blades sharp enough to cut through the freshly resurfaced ice with a whisper.
The rookie facing me is broad-shouldered and grinning, his stance relaxed in the way of someone who does not consider me a legitimate opponent.
He leans forward, his grin widening.
"I will be easy on you," he says, adding a wink that is probably meant to be charming. "I do not bully Omegas."
I smile back.
"Okay," I say sweetly. "Thanks."
You will regret that wink in about thirty seconds.
Coach Mercer skates to the face-off circle, puck balanced on his open palm. The arena hushes. The rookies settle into their formation. Sage plants herself on my left, her posture coiled and ready. Archie takes the right flank, his green eyes sharp and calculating without the goggles dimming them.
Coach raises the puck.
I take a deep breath.
The cold air fills my lungs, sharp and clean and achingly familiar. The rink hums beneath my blades. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. And somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the layers of trauma and grief and self-doubt that have accumulated over four years of surviving instead of living, a spark catches.
Small.
Fragile.
But alive.
I can feel them watching. Rafe with his crossed arms and his doubt. Vanessa with her laughter and her cruelty. Etienne with his quiet belief and his storm-blue eyes. Cal with his empty jersey slot and his reluctant concern. An entire arena full of people who have already decided what I am capable of.
