Something in my chest loosened, a knot I didn’t realize I’d been strangling for months.
Reese tackled me from behind, yelling my name. Kira joined in, dragging us toward the group huddle. Gloves flew, helmets knocked, someone half-cried, half-giggled.
Our first real win. Our first proof we belonged here.
I looked once more toward Calder. He’d already turned his back, clipboard in hand, but that single nod burned louder than the crowd’s chant.
For the first time since everything fell apart, I felt like a player again. Not someone’s ex. Not someone’s mistake.
Just Billie Donovan, skating off ice that finally looked like mine.
Steam fogged the mirrors,and the locker room throbbed with victory. Somebody’s phone blasted pop music through tinny speakers, and tape balls ricocheted off lockers. Equipment bags littered the floor like casualties. Reese stood on a bench, spraying water from her bottle as if it were champagne.
“Crestwood, baby!” she hollered. The girls roared back, voices hoarse from the game.
I leaned against my locker, grinning so hard my face hurt. My pads still squeaked when I moved, and every muscle hummed from the high. It wasn’t supposed to feel this good yet—not after only one win—but it did. Pure, reckless release.
Reese elbowed through the noise, her ponytail half-undone and eyes shining. “Pour House, tonight. You, me, all of us. We’re celebrating right.”
“The Pour House?” I tugged at the tape on my wrist. “Isn’t that where half the city’s beer league hangs out?”
“Exactly.” She tossed me my hoodie. “We earned fries and jukebox country.”
Around us, voices rose in agreement. Someone yelled for burgers. Someone else demanded shots. I laughed, shaking my head, but the sound didn’t reach my chest. My skin still buzzed, too new to anything that felt normal.
“I don’t know…” I started, but Reese jumped down from her perch, eyes wild. “No backing out, Donovan. Team bonding. Mandatory.”
“Yeah, mandatory!” another girl echoed. A chant started—off-key, ridiculous—until half the room clapped along.
“Tell Coach he has to come too!” someone shouted over the noise.
The room stumbled into silence, then into a gleeful rhythm of voices. “Coach Shaw! Coach Shaw!”
I froze mid-laugh.
The chant grew, boots pounding the tile. My throat tightened, a different heat mixing with the adrenaline still in my blood. Him atThe Pour House—no whistle, no command, maybe even smiling—echoed inside me like a shot off iron. I could almost see it: him leaning on the counter, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, that rough voice too close.
But one of the defenders, Tia, grabbed her jacket. “He’s still outside, right? I’ll ask!”
The room erupted again—whoops, cheers, teasing shouts.
I laughed with them, but my pulse wouldn’t settle. The celebration blurred around me, light and dizzying, while the thought of him walking through that doorway refused to fade.
Night air hit like a slap—cold, clean, tasting of road salt and diesel. I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and crossed the lot, skate guards clacking against the asphalt. The rink lights gleamed behind me, frost haloing the windows. My body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline; my hair stuck to the back of my neck.
All day felt like whiplash.
I could still hear his voice cutting through the second period—sharp enough to split open every ounce of momentum I’d built. The way the whole bench went quiet after. How small I felt, for one breath, before the ice pulled me back up. Then there was that look later, after the final horn—just a nod, nothing dramatic, but it landed harder than applause.
He tore me down and still shoved the puck back into my hands. Daring me to be better. To prove it wasn’t luck.
The lot was half-empty, the hum of the sodium lamps buzzing in my ears. I rolled my shoulder; bruises bloomed under the pads, beautiful in their own way. Earning things felt different when someone actually noticed the cost.
I kicked at a patch of frozen slush and caught myself grinning like an idiot. It wasn’t about him, not really. It was about that moment of seeing myself through his eyes—unceremonious, unpolished, capable.
My locker rattled with everyone’s laughter hours ago, but his voice stayed.You don’t get to fall apart.
I didn’t know who Coach Shaw really was, beyond the gravel tone and the stare that could flay the ice itself. I only knew he saw me play—really saw me—and that scared me more than any hit on the boards.
