The marker stayed in my fingers. I wiped the board clean and started again, block letters this time. Bigger.
DONOVAN—C—FIRST LINE.
I capped the pen and leaned back in the chair, listening to the scrape of the plastic click into place. Somewhere deep down, I knew I’d just made things harder. But denying talent felt worse than the risk. She’d earned center ice. The rest was my problem.
I looked at the name again, at the space I’d just elevated her to, and forced the words out loud into the empty room.
“Nothing happens again. Not ever.”
The sound carried, small and hollow. It settled over the boards, over the papers spread across my desk, over the endless, pointless memories I kept fighting. I let the silence swallow it whole.
For a heartbeat, I almost believed myself. Then the air conditioner kicked on, a soft draught curling down my neck, and I knew the truth hadn’t gone anywhere. It just learned how to wait.
Chapter 15
Billie
The buzzer cracked through the rink, long and loud, and for a split second none of us moved. Then the scoreboard blinked 3–2, Crestwood on top, and the noise hit like a wave. Sticks slammed against the boards. Gloves flew. Reese screamed something incoherent, arms thrown around Kira as they spun in a messy circle of victory.
I stayed on my knees in the crease for a heartbeat longer, catching my breath through the burn in my lungs. The ice hissed under my blades when I stood. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else—shaking, heavy, but alive in that way that made every bruise worth it.
We’d done it. Again.
I skated toward the bench, helmet half-off, hair plastered to my forehead. Calder was there—arms folded, expression unreadable. But his eyes were bright, alive in the same rough way the rest of us were. The clipboard hung loose in his hand. He reached out without looking directly at me, gloved fist raised in a silent cue.
I tapped mine against it before I could think. A quick, solid bump. He turned to the next player, keeping the rhythm moving down the line.
Still, it felt like it landed harder on me.
The girls piled on in the hallway—laughter bouncing off the concrete, shrieking about that last play.
“You see that cage rattle?” Reese yelled over the chaos. “Thought the damn bolts were coming loose!”
“Pure luck,” I shot back, grinning so wide my face ached. “Next time it’s going in.”
Kira shoved me with her shoulder. “Next time youassistme, hero.”
We laughed, clattering through the tunnel in full gear, high on speed and sweat and the kind of teamwork you can’t fake.
In the locker room, the music hit—someone’s speaker blasting an unofficial anthem while skates and helmets scattered across the floor. I stripped off my gloves, flexed my stiff fingers, and leaned back against the cool metal of my stall. The noise blurred around me until it turned into static. All I could feel was the pulse under my skin, the hum of still-moving blood and effort.
That last play kept replaying behind my eyes—the stretch pass from Kira, the spin through the neutral zone, the crowd rising when I wound up. The puck had kissed iron instead of net, but I’d felt the vibration shoot through my stick into my ribs. The sound of it—sharp, hungry—still echoed inside me.
Calder had stayed behind on the bench when the final horn blew. I’d caught one glimpse when I turned back, expecting the usual scowl, maybe a curt nod. Instead, he’d been watching us through the surge of chaos, jaw tight but corners of his mouth threatening a smile. Then that measured fist bump, simple and quick. Hardly anything. But it burned through the padded air between us like a secret.
Now, as the team whooped around me, I let the noise fill the room and closed my eyes. Victory had its own silence inside it—heavy and warm and mine.
Steam hung heavy in the air, curling from showers someone had drowned the stalls with. Pads thudded against metal benches. Voices ricocheted off tile and cement, layered into one still-buzzing noise that couldn’t let go of the game.
Kira perched on a bench, one leg shaking like she’d mainlined espresso. “The Pour House, ten o’clock. Don’t flake.” Her hair dripped onto her phone as she typed furiously, thumbs moving like blades.
Across the aisle, Reese had turned into a self-appointed bouncer, collecting wallets and IDs in a helmet. “Anyone under twenty-one, hand it over. I know fakes when I see ‘em. I’ll make sure we sit near the back.”
The speaker she’d hijacked from the trainer’s office thudded out bass that made locker doors rattle. Somebody tossed tape rolls into the trash in rhythm with it.
I peeled off my chest protector; the strap sticking stubbornly against sweat. The air felt cooler against my skin, the first calm breath after the noise. But the calm didn’t last—every sound clawed its way back in. Laughter. Plans. The wordsPour Houseover and over.
Kira spotted me digging through my duffel. “You’re not changing clothes already.”
