“Yeah, well,” I said, voice tight around the words, “if anyone can’t handle me, that’s their problem.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. I already knew what he thought.
I let the comment hang, skating off to the next cone with a little extra shove in my stride. I bent my knees deeper, pressed my stick harder against the puck, every slap and wrist shot carrying the annoyance that had been building since the first whistle. My edges dug into the ice, carving tight turns, every drill a chance to burn off that heat, to turn the energy into something solid.
I wasn’t going to beg for approval. I wasn’t going to simmer quietly and obey blindly. I had skill. I had speed. I had fire. If The Surge didn’t want me, I’d find a team that did.
My frustration melted into motion, letting the puck roll under my stick, every sprint, every hard cut… I let every pass fuel the anger and the injustice at once. Mason stayed in my peripheral, but didn’t say anything more. I knew he was watching though, waiting, hoping I’d figure it out before I passed the point of no return. Or whatever he thought it was.
I wasn’t listening. Not yet. Not until the drills were done and McAvoy’s shouts faded behind the echoing clang of sticks and skates.
*
Game on, and the energy in Honda Center was electric, but for all the wrong reasons. We skated onto the ice and the Ducks were already moving like they owned every inch of it, crisp passes, sharp angles, bodies cutting across our lanes before we could even get set. I felt it immediately—something was off. Mason had spilled. The locker room chatter, the tension lingering in every glance, made everyone skate hesitant, paranoid. The guys kept throwing me looks that made it plain. I’d said too much at practice, and all that talk about finding another team probably spooked them.
I tried to push it aside, telling myself it was game night, and I could salvage it. First shift, puck on my stick, I attempted a quick breakout through the neutral zone. A Ducks winger read me perfectly, stick slapped the puck away, and I nearly collided with Tucker trying to cut through behind me. He tumbled into the boards, muttering under his breath. I shoved off, spinningpast a defender, looking for a lane. Nothing. Every pass bounced off sticks, every shot deflected. Nothing went right.
By the second shift, we were already one down. Ducks scored after a cross-ice feed found the slot, Hunter had no chance, and Tucker’s lazy arm couldn’t get there in time. Play opened up, and I carried the puck into their zone on the next rush, weaving between two defenders. I saw a sliver of open ice, and shot hard. The puck hit the post, shot off Mason’s shin, and back out. Tucker tried to recover it, but the Ducks’ defense closed every gap. I was skating in circles, chest pounding, frustration building, yelling at the air more than anyone else.
I caught glimpses of the stands during line changes, scanning for Nicole. She didn’t have her usual seat with away games, but after the fourth or fifth check I was sure she wasn’t there. My stomach twisted. She never missed a game. Not one. And here I was, scrambling, trying to drag this team through what felt like a death spiral, knowing she was missing this one.
Second period started, and things got worse. Ducks scored two more. Quick one-timers, both rebounds we failed to recover. Their checks were perfectly timed and they made us pay in the worst way. Grayson shouted lines at us to stay tight. Mason went down after a collision, shook it off but still looked dazed and out of it. The weight in the arena was crushing.
Coach’s voice cut across the ice: “Act like you want it! Stop handing it to them as if you don’t care! We fucking care!”
I tried to pull the guys together on a rush, juking past a defenseman, carrying the puck deep, seeing a lane for a shot. I took it, hoping for a miracle rebound. The puck slid wide. Mason skated past, cursing under his breath, and Grayson tried a wraparound but their goalie blocked it clean. Somehow the Ducks were already back in transition by the time I rallied for a comeback.
Third period came, and the scoreboard read six nothing. It seemed over, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to take control, prove I could still shine even if the rest of the team were dead in the water. I pushed hard, skating end to end, taking every puck, forcing plays, chasing loose pucks, and elbowing my own guys through checks. I carried it into their zone, tried a behind-the-net feed to Grayson, but misjudged the angle. Ducks intercepted, rushed the puck down the ice, and scored again. Seven nothing.
I skated off the ice, hands on my knees, trying to breathe, trying to plan the next move. I yelled at myself, at everyone: “Come on! We can still get one!”
They looked at me like I’d lost it. Maybe I had.
But if we had to lose, I needed it to be with at least one fucking goal in the net. At least one.
Minutes later, with the third winding down, scoreboard glaring eight nothing, I spotted Shawn streaking down the wing. There was a glimmer, a chance to get a goal, to reclaim a scrap of dignity. I shoved every ounce of desperation into the play. Skating hard, weaving between defenders, I knew if I got my stick on the puck I’d sink it.
“Shawn!”
His eyes stayed down. The damn puck glued to his stick as he drove forward.
But there were three guys gearing up to wall him off, and if that happened—
I lurched across the ice, pushing harder than ever, stick out. A defender moved to block me, and I side-stepped him with a clip that usually works out fine. This time though, there were too many of us in the mix. I slammed into Shawn, my stick jamming his skates at full speed. He scrambled, arms flailing to break his fall. But it was too late. He fell hard, head slamming against theboards. Blood bloomed instantly, vivid and horrifying across the ice.
13
Nicole
“I’ve never had a date in scrubs before,” I said, settling down onto the blanket James had spread beneath a sprawling oak whose branches knotted overhead like they’d been holding this patch of shade together for decades.
Brackenridge Park was showing off. Late-winter sun filtered through bare-limbed trees just starting to think about green, the grass still damp from morning dew, the river nearby moving slow and glassy as if it had nowhere better to be. Joggers passed at a polite distance. A couple of ducks lingered closer to the water, entirely unimpressed by our attempt at romance on a stolen lunch break.
James glanced up from arranging the corner of the blanket, his scrubs wrinkled in the same places as mine, his hospital badge clipped to his waistband instead of his chest like we’d both quietly agreed this wasn’t the moment for credentials.
“First time for everything,” he said, tone light, eyes warm. “I figured if we were going to break the rules, we might as well commit.”
I set my pager beside my knee, close enough to feel it if it went off, far enough that I could pretend—for just a little while—that it wouldn’t. Forty minutes. That’s all we had before we were pulled back into fluorescent lights and beeping machines and other people’s emergencies. Still, the way he’d gone all out made it feel intentional, not rushed. Real plates. Cloth napkins. A thermos that definitely didn’t come from the hospital break room.
