Her words blurred. Something about travel stipends, PR expectations, community outreach. I tracked maybe half of it while my eyes drifted to the ice.
Twelve girls running drills. Jerseys mismatched, some faces too eager for their own good. But a few of them moved with instinct—lower center of gravity, weight balanced, the right kind of aggression in their stride. One defenseman cut the puck off a teammate’s stick like she’d been doing it in her sleep. Another forward hesitated before a pass—too much thinking, not enough flow.
“You with me?” Paige’s voice tugged me back.
“Yeah. Press stuff, sponsors, the dog-and-pony show. Got it.”
Her brow lifted. “You’ll need to attend the media day next week. The university wants to highlight your transition—professional experience to collegiate mentorship.”
I gave a dry laugh. “That what they’re calling exile now?”
She didn’t smile. “They’re calling it opportunity.”
The hum of compressors filled the pause. I watched a puck ricochet off the boards, sailed wide, hit the back glass with a hollow pop. Some kid on the bench flinched.
Paige noted my reaction. “You evaluate quietly,” she said.
“Force of habit.”
She followed my gaze toward the players. “We’ve got talent, Coach. Raw, but eager.”
“Eager’s fine,” I muttered. “Eager gets you hurt if it’s not controlled.”
Her pen paused above her clipboard. “You think they can’t handle you?”
I almost smiled. “I think they don’t know what handling me means yet.”
I started toward the railing, hands gripping the cold metal as I watched another breakout drill collapse halfway through. Too much space between their lines, no communication. Fixable. Everything was fixable, if they could take the bruises.
Behind me, Paige cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to observe. We can review scheduling after practice.”
I nodded without turning. “Fine.”
Her footsteps faded down the hall, leaving only the scrape of blades and the echo of pucks. I watched the players another full minute before pulling the whistle from my coat pocket.
The weight of it was familiar, heavier than I remembered.
The locker room smelled like stale sweat and disinfectant, the kind that clung to cement no matter how often someone hosed it down. I stopped at the doorway and stared at the row oflockers with shiny new nameplates—Coach Shaw taped over one in fresh white label paper. Cheap and temporary, same as me.
I dropped my duffel onto the bench. The clang echoed harder than it should have. My skates sat in the bag under a pile of clothes I hadn’t worn since the suspension hearings. They looked mean, like old friends waiting to see if I’d still fit.
Jersey next. The Crestwood logo stared back—bright, collegiate blue stitched across white. Too clean. Too full of hope. I ran a thumb over the crest until my throat went tight. No teeth, no bite. Just a mascot no one in the league would’ve respected.
I pulled it on anyway. The fabric felt wrong against my skin—lightweight, polite, like it expected me to behave. I sat for a while, elbows braced on my knees, listening to the half-muffled scrape of skates from the rink. Every stride out there meant I was supposed to be something I wasn’t.
“Pathetic,” I muttered under my breath.
Still, if this was the price Gideon wanted paid, I’d pay it. One season. One goddamn clean record. Maybe then I’d stop hearing his voice every time I poured a drink.
The stick leaned against the wall where I’d left it—taped handle worn smooth by calluses that no longer existed. I picked it up, gave it a few short swings. The balance hadn’t changed. Only I had.
When I stepped into the tunnel, the air shifted—colder, drier, carrying that sharp smell of Zamboni diesel and fresh ice. A twinge of memory hit behind my ribs. The sound of blades carving was the closest thing I’d ever had to a heartbeat.
I pushed through the gate and walked out onto the rink, steel on steel echoing. Heads turned, mostly curious, maybe wary. A couple girls slowed their laps, whispering. Someone must’ve told them stories. They probably expected the monster version of me. Fair. Even I didn’t know which one would show up.
I kept moving, tracing the blue line, watching drills fall apart under fatigue and nerves. Knees locked, sticks too high, no talk between them. Raw talent, sure. But raw didn’t win much except bruises.
A whistle blew somewhere near center ice. One of the forwards broke from the pack, moving faster than the rest. Her posture caught me, low stance, quick stick handling, clean transitions. Real instincts. The kind that couldn’t be faked.
