This was exactly why music was my sanctuary. When everything else in my life felt uncertain or complicated, I could lose myself in the precision and beauty of a well-played piece.
And unlike my family, music never made me feel like I had to apologize for who I was.
I positioned my violin and started the Chaconne again, but this time I let my emotions bleed into the piece completely. All the worry about my Dad’s continued disappointment and silent treatment, the frustration with Mom, the stress about being trapped with Drew for nine weeks, and the fear that maybe I really wasn’t good enough—it all poured out through my bow and onto the strings.
The music soared and dipped, reflecting every complicatedfeeling I was carrying. This was what I loved about violin—it could handle whatever I threw at it. Joy, anger, heartbreak, hope—the instrument could contain it all and transform it into something beautiful.
This was why I’d chosen music therapy as my major. This was why I believed so deeply in the healing power of music. Because I’d experienced it firsthand, every single day of my life. In a world where I constantly felt like I wasn’t enough—not practical enough for my parents, not tough enough to handle Drew’s pranks, not confident enough in anything else—music was the one place where I knew exactly who I was.
The audition was coming up soon, which meant I needed to make every practice session count.
I could do this. Iwoulddo this.
I wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—derail my dreams.
EIGHT
Friday classes had finally ended, and I was already mentally on the ice. Tonight’s game against Northern Montana University was exactly what I needed—a chance to dominate and remind everyone why I was one of the best defensemen in the conference.
And maybe more importantly, a few hours where I didn’t have to think about being stuck with Harper Tinsley as my psychology project partner for the next nine weeks. That clusterfuck was Monday’s problem.
I got to the arena early. The rink was quiet except for the Zamboni making its final pass, and I stood there for a minute just breathing it in. I loved the sharp, frigid air and the smooth, pristine ice.
This was my sanctuary. This was where everything made sense.
Growing up, hockey had started as a bonding activity between my dad and me, but I’d quickly become obsessed with the sport. I’d even considered trying to go to a college that had an NCAA team, but I loved being in Montana more than anything else. I didn’t want to be that far awayfrom home. And I knew hockey could be a part of my life forever, even if I never played professionally. Knowing I’ve contributed to the return of CFU’s hockey program is enough.
“You’re here early,” Foster said, appearing beside me with a grin. Our hockey captain was always early. “A little birdy told me you got paired with Harper for your psych project. Should be interesting watching you try not to kill each other for nine weeks.”
“Fuck off.” But yeah, it probably would be interesting for everyone. I didn’t know how I was going to survive it. The girl had been under my skin all week, and I didn’t know what to do about it except hit people on the ice.
By the time warm-ups started, the arena was already filling up. NMU always traveled well, and their student section was packed with assholes in navy and gold who’d been talking shit on social media all week about how we were going to get embarrassed on our home ice.
When the buzzer sounded to clear the ice, I felt that familiar buzz starting in my chest. This was it. This was what I lived for.
Coach Maxwell was already at the whiteboard when we got to the locker room, and he laid out the plan for the first period.
“Alright then.” Coach clapped his hands. “Let’s show these guys why Clark Fork owns this rivalry. Lumberjacks on three!”
“One, two, three, Lumberjacks!”
The roar that hit us when we skated back out made the hair on my arms stand up. This was the best fucking feeling in the world—right before the puck dropped, when anything was possible.
The anthem played and I stood there with my handover my heart, mentally running through positioning, coverage, all the things I needed to do to make sure we won this game.
Then the ref was at center ice and everything else disappeared.
Foster lined up against their center—some guy named Kowalski who’d been running his mouth on socials about exposing our “overrated defense.”
We’d see about that.
The puck dropped and Foster lost the draw, which almost never happened. NMU’s wingers came charging into our zone with speed and I locked onto their left wing, reading his approach. He tried to chip the puck past me along the boards, but I’d seen that play coming from a mile away.
I timed my stick lift perfectly and knocked the puck free. Liam scooped it up and we were heading the other way.
“There we go, Monty!” Coach called.
The first few shifts were exactly what Coach had warned us about—NMU came out hitting everything that moved. Their third liner caught one of our freshmen with a huge hit that sent the kid sprawling. Legal, but brutal.
