Isabelle drifts up beside me, perfume curling through the cold air, satisfaction soft as smoke. “Amusant,” she murmurs. “Five no’s. Losing your edge?”
“Shut up,” I snap.
Her laugh is low, mocking. “Puppy growls.” Then, quieter: “New rules,mon cher. Rattling her isn’t enough. Make her fall.”
The wordfalldoesn’t sit right. It doesn’t sound like a win. It sounds like a warning.
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“I’mthe deal.”
Diamonds catch the fairy lights when she smiles. Merciless, glossy, built to cut. “Prove you’re the man everyone thinks you are.”
She turns away, pleased with herself.
I stand there longer than I should, jaw tight, pulse uneven—annoyed at her, and worse, at myself for caring.
That’s the moment it clicks. Not that I’ll lose the bet, but that winning it will cost me something I won’t know how to get back.
And yet, I don’t walk away.
Maybe in her Sartre tragedy, everything collapses before it even begins.
But in hockey, you don’t lose in the first period. You regroup. You grind.
And you finish in the third.
2
NO EASY GOALS (KIERAN)
I’m not used to taking a loss. Especially not in my own damn house.
That’s exactly what last night was.
It keeps replaying—Wren looking me dead in the eye and shutting me down in front of the crowd. No hesitation. No giggle. No “maybe later.” Just one syllable that lodged under my skin and refused to come out.
No.
That word follows me onto the ice the next morning.
“On the line!” Coach McCarthy’s whistle slices through the rink.
The arena is cold enough to bite, fluorescents buzzing overhead, ice still pristine and waiting to get carved up. We’re already dripping sweat from warm-ups, but bag skates don’t care about comfort. We line up on the goal line, bent over our sticks.
McCarthy paces the blue line, gray hair plastered to his forehead under a faded BU cap, eyes keen as fresh blades. He’s got that look—the one that says someone’s about to suffer for last week’s sloppy performance againstVermont.
“Suicide sprints,” he barks. “Goal line to blue and back. Red and back. Far blue and back. Far goal line and back. That’s one. We’re doing ten.”
A groan rolls through the team.
“You think Harvard’s gonna take it easy on you Friday?” McCarthy’s voice hits the rafters. “Move!”
The whistle screams, and we’re off. Full sheet down, full sheet back, legs burning, lungs tearing. My edges bite into the ice, carving clean lines while my thighs light up. Again. Again. By the third rep, Dalton’s cursing under his breath next to me, and I almost laugh, except I can’t breathe.
“Move your ass, Dalton!” Coach bellows. “This isn’t tea time!”
Mason taps his stick behind me at the crease, my roommate, our starting goalie and captain, yelling at the boys to pick up the pace. I dig in harder, crossovers flowing, sweat dripping down my temples despite the cold. Being an A means you don’t coast. McCarthy rides me harder than most, and I take it, because wearing a letter means you set the pace whether your legs feel like cement or not.
