But an A isn’t the C.
That hits even harder because of my big brother Liam, the captain of the New York Defenders, the one every coach and scout puts on a pedestal. I’ve been skating in his shadow since I could tie my skates, and now that letter is the bar I’m measured against. Backyard rinks, youth leagues, juniors, college. It never matters how many goals I bury or how hard I work. Liam set the pace. I just chase it.
Even now, I’m technically “safe.” Finish senior year, don’t blow out a knee, and I’ve got a spot waiting with the Defenders. All lined up. All convenient. All because of my brother. Nobody says it to my face, but I hear it in certainlaughs:must be nice to be a legacy.Every goal I score has an asterisk only I can see.
On top of it, full ride covers tuition, but it’s Liam’s checks that keep my fridge full. Liam’s captaincy that opens doors. Liam’s name that got me the conversation with their GM in the first place.
Which means every time Coach pushes me, every time the guys needle me, every time I even think about letting up—I hear Liam’s name echoing from NHL rinks, reminding me that good isn’t good enough when your brother’s already great.
Usually, that’s enough to keep me sharp. Usually, I skate harder just to shut the echo up.
But today, it isn’t my brother’s voice in my head.
It’s hers.
That one word.
No.
We finish suicides and move straight into battle drills. Coach blows the whistle. “Two-on-two corners! Winner stays, loser runs another suicide!”
And this is where practice gets nasty. Puck battles in the corner are pure warfare, separating the tough from the broken.
“O’Connor, Reed—you’re up!” McCarthy points us to opposite corners.
Reed’s six-two, two-twenty, and mean as hell. Off the drop he rides me into the glass, stick across my ribs, trying to staple me there.
I eat the first shove and let him lean—inside edge heavy, hips loading, setting up the wrap.
That’s the tell.
I knife my blade under his, make him chase hands instead of the puck, then spin off the wall—shoulder through his chest, skates biting. His elbow flares, the gap opens for half a beat. I pop the puck loose and slip out of the jam.
“That’s it!” McCarthy pounds his stick on the ice. “O’Connor, that’s championship-level puck protection! Reed, you see that patience? That’s how you win battles!”
Reed skates past me, jaw clenched, and I keep my expression neutral. But inside? That felt good.
We run breakout drills next, getting the puck out of the zone clean under pressure. I take a hard forecheck, wait for the opening, and thread a pass tape-to-tape through two defenders. We finish the rush with a ringing shot off the post.
Coach gives me the smallest nod. That’s as close to praise as you get from McCarthy.
By the time practice ends, we’re wrecked. The ice is scarred with blade marks, sweat soaks through my undershirt, and my legs are trembling. My lower back aches from the hits, my shins throb despite the pads, and I’ve got a cut on my lip I don’t even remember taking.
My body’s battered from two hours of contact, but it’s Wren’s single syllable that keeps landing. Over and over.No.
“Off the ice! Film room in twenty!” McCarthy barks. “And O’Connor, don’t think for a second you’re untouchable. You slip, the whole team slips. Keep your edge honed.”
“Yes, Coach,” I manage.
The guys shuffle off, exhausted, but not too tired to start chirping the second we hit the locker room.
The place is pure chaos. Gear clattering into stalls, music blasting from somebody’s speaker, steam fogging the air from showers. The smell is sweat, tape adhesive, and someone’s body spray that could strip paint.
I drop onto the bench and start peeling off my gear. Shoulder pads first, then elbows, shin guards hung on their hooks. Routine keeps you sane in this sport.
I’m trying to ignore the inevitable when Reed decides to open his mouth.
“Hey, O’Connor.” He leans around from two stalls down, grinning, tape still wrapped around his knuckles. “How’s Library Girl? Still thinking about you, or you thinking about her?”
