Her hand tightens on my stick, her posture drops into a crouch I have only seen from seasoned forwards, and she wins the face-off so cleanly that the rookie across from her does not realize the puck is gone until she is already three strides ahead of him.
Three strides.
In the time it takes me to process what I just witnessed, she has gained three full strides of separation from a kid who was smirking about going easy on her two seconds ago.
And then she is flying.
There is no other word for it. She does not skate the way hockey players skate, with brute force and chopping strides and the raw power of bodies built for impact. She glides. She flows. Her blades barely seem to touch the ice, carrying her across the surface with a speed and fluidity that belongs on a competition rink, not a practice scrimmage.
I regret blinking even once.
Sage is right behind her, the two of them moving in sync with a precision that speaks to hours and hours of unspoken practice. They weave through the rookies like they have rehearsed this routine a thousand times, their communication nonverbal, instinctive, reading each other's movements with the kind of awareness that most professional duos spend years developing.
Mae passes the puck to Sage, and in the same motion, she skids to a sharp stop that sends ice shavings spraying in an arc. Two defensemen who were converging on her position overshoot, their momentum carrying them past the space she just vacated.
She is already gone.
Cutting across to the opposite side of the ice, blades carving angles so precise they leave clean lines on the fresh surface. She is not just fast. She is surgical. Every movement calculated, every pivot deliberate, every shift in direction designed to exploit the gaps in the formation that I know she identified within minutes of watching our scrimmage.
Sage sends the puck blazing across the ice with a hit that is all power and no hesitation, the black disc skimming past two outstretched sticks and landing on Archie's blade with a precision that makes me blink.
Archie catches it cleanly, transitioning from observation mode to execution in a heartbeat. He glides forward, his slim frame deceptively quick, his movements carrying the fluid certainty of someone who has been watching elite players his entire life and has absorbed their techniques through osmosis.
By the time any of us can track Mae's position, she has already looped behind the net.
Archie feeds the puck to empty space.
It does not stay empty.
Mae materializes from behind the goal and redirects the puck with a flick of her wrist that sends it sailing into the upper corner of the net so fast that Etienne does not move.
He does not even flinch.
I watch him blink. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Then he slowly turns around, looking at the puck sitting in the back of the net behind him, processing the reality that an Omegain borrowed gear just scored on him without him so much as twitching a glove.
The silence in the arena is deafening.
Not a cough. Not a whisper. Not a single breath from any of the thirty-plus people watching from the boards and the bleachers. Just the hum of the refrigeration units and the distant buzz of fluorescent lights.
Sage and Archie skate back to their side, both of them looking unfairly calm for two people who just helped execute a goal that left an entire hockey team speechless.
Mae glides to center ice, stopping with a casual spray that she makes look effortless.
She tilts her head.
"Alright, boys. Shocked factor can wait. Now stop playing like wimps and take us seriously here."
The arena erupts.
"WHAT IN THE HOT STUFF WAS THAT?"
"DID SHE JUST SCORE ON LAURENT?"
"BRO, SHE BARELY TOUCHED THE PUCK AND IT WENT IN!"
My teammates are losing their minds. Guys are slamming their sticks against the boards, shouting over each other, grabbing each other's shoulders. Dillon has his helmet off and is running his hands through his hair, muttering profanity in a stream of disbelief.
I take a glance at Rafe.
