For the first time in years, I caught myself hoping tomorrow might not be a repeat of yesterday. Then I crushed that thought before it started.
Hope was a dangerous habit.
The arena emptied slow, like the building itself exhaled after holding a breath too long. Doors clanged. Voices thinned down the corridor until only the faint hum of the refrigeration unit filled the air. I crossed the hallway, shoes echoing on damp concrete, and pushed into my office.
The lights inside were harsh, flickering at the edges, bouncing off the little trophies and cracked gear someone had left behind before me. I dropped the clipboard on the desk, leaned both hands on the wood, and let my shoulders sag. The silence pressed in until it felt like a hand on the back of my neck.
I sank into the chair—the old vinyl wheezed under my weight—and tilted my head back. The cheap ceiling tiles above looked like they were waiting for a reason to cave. For the first time all day, no one expected me to bark orders or carry anyone else’s pride.
The drawer stuck, like always, before coming loose with a sharp jerk. Inside lay a battered folder, edges curling from years of coffee rings and road trips. My notes from my last pro job. “Detroit Serpents—2025 season.” I hadn’t looked at them since the day I walked out.
Pages slipped free, scribbled diagrams and quick stats scrawled in ink that had faded to gray. I flipped through them; the names hitting harder than I’d expected—guys who’d made it out, others who hadn’t. Mistakes so obvious now I wanted to punch myself for them.
I spread them across the desk, then opened today’s sheet from Crestwood. Fresh numbers, new blood. I cross-referenced the notes, line pairings, timing differentials. My pen moved fast, the way it used to when the game meant something.
By the time I hit the forward column, one name kept jumping out at me. I circled it once. Then again, harder until the paper dented. BILLIE DONOVAN.
I grabbed the marker and turned to the whiteboard. The squeak sounded too loud in the small room.
Fast hands. Better vision than she realizes. Possible captain material.
Under it, smaller letters, almost a whisper.
Don’t fuck this up.
I capped the marker, stared at the words until the letters blurred into one thick line. My pulse steadied for the first time all night. The room smelled like ice, tape glue, and the faint citrus from the liniment tubs outside. Familiar scents. Safe ones.
No clinking bottles in the drawer, no twitch of craving under my skin. Just the buzz of the arena lights and the steady rhythm of thought. I didn’t feel good—didn’t even feel calm—but the cold in my chest had shifted.
Engaged. That was the word.
I sat there, shoulders loose, pen tapping against the folder. For the first time in weeks, it felt like the game might let me back in.
Chapter 11
Billie
The locker room smelled like nervous sweat and borrowed confidence. Helmets clinked against benches, sticks tapped on tiled floors. Someone laughed too loudly. No one joined in.
I tightened my laces until my toes went numb. The Crestwood jersey felt heavier tonight, like it knew what Lakeshore’s name meant: experience, funding, expectation. They’d been playing together for years; we’d barely learned each other’s voices on the ice.
Calder stood by the door with his arms crossed, eyes scanning us like we were inventory he hadn’t decided whether to return. The hum of chatter dimmed without him asking.
“It’s not about winning,” he said. His voice scraped the air, low and flat. “It’s about not embarrassing yourselves.”
A couple of girls exchanged looks. Reese snorted.
Calder’s gaze cut to her, then to the rest of us. “They think you’re charity. Campus fluff. Prove they’re wrong. Or don’t. Either way, the score goes on record.” He turned, hand on the door, then paused. “Play for each other, not the press.” And he was gone.
For a long second, nobody moved. Then jerseys rustled, gloves snapped, the room reanimated. Someone muttered, “Classic Coach Sunshine.” It broke the tension, just a little.
On the ice, the rink blazed under too-bright lights. Lakeshore players skated warm-ups in synchronized lines, every stride sharp and practised. Their goalie stretched like she’d done this a million times. I swallowed hard and forced my focus back to our end.
Calder paced behind the bench, arms still folded. Not shouting, which somehow felt worse.
When the whistle blew, the first shift jolted forward. The sound of edges carving into ice filled my ears, so clean it drowned out thought. I chased the puck into the corner, clipped shoulders with a girl twice my size, bounced off, recovered the puck anyway. Pain flared down my arm. Didn’t matter. I sent a quick pass across the slot. Missed connection. Still—it was close.
“Better!” Calder barked.
