The room erupts in laughter. A couple guys bang their sticks on the floor.
I yank my chest protector off and don’t look up. If you react, they win. Hockey 101.
But Reed doesn’t need me to react to enjoy himself.
“She’s not even hot,” he drawls, unlacing his skates. His voice carries; it’s designed to. “Quiet little mouse in thrift store clothes. Probably smells like textbooks and ramen. Since when do you fish in the kiddie pool, O’Connor?”
My head snaps up. There’s chirping, and then there’s crossing the line.
“Watch your mouth,” I bite out.
He smirks, working his laces. “Touchy. Must’ve hit close to home.”
Jackson pipes up from across the room. “Maybe he’s losing his touch. First the Vermont game, now this.”
“Vermont was a team loss,” I snap.
“Sure,” Reed says, finally looking at me. “But you went zero-for-three on the power play. Looks like you’re off your game everywhere.”
He lets that sit a beat, loud in the steam and music.
“Lucky for you the Defenders are feeling generous with family.”
The locker room goes quiet except for running water and humming ventilation.
My jaw locks. If I look soft anywhere—on the ice, with girls, in life—the story becomes I only got here because of Liam. Not talent. Not work. Just legacy.
That’s the chirp under all the other chirps, and everyone knows it.
The room stays tense for a beat, waiting to see if I’ll snap. But I’ve been getting needled since peewee. You don’t give them the satisfaction.
I slam my gear into my stall. Fine. Wren said no once. That doesn’t mean the game’s over. In hockey, you don’t win by accepting the first check. You get back up, adjust your approach, and hit back twice as hard.
Isabelle thinks she handed me a losing bet? Reed thinks he can question my game? Not happening.
Nobody tells me no and leaves me questioning myself. Not coaches, not crowds, not girls at parties who usually trip over themselves to hand me their number. This shouldn’t be any different.
I’m not walking away on a no. And I’m doing it the same way I score goals—with patience, precision, and the absolute certainty that I don’t accept defeat.
Through film review, even during dinner with the guys, that “no” sits in my chest like a challenge I can’t shake. I should let it go. Move on to easier targets.
I don’t.
That night I come up with a plan. Pride, stupidity, definitely both. There’s no way I’m letting it stand.
I tell myself it’s about pride. About winning.
But the truth is simpler—and worse.
I can’t stand that she saw through me and walked away untouched.
3
PRESSURE DIFFERENTIAL (WREN)
The lecture hall is quieter than anywhere else on campus at this hour. Calculus settles into order on the board, and my nervous system can finally work with this.
Theo’s in my class this semester.
