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Chapter 1
MATEO
For a few seconds after I step through the door into the rink, I just stand there and breathe it in.
It’s empty. The ice settles with a low, familiar creak from the Zamboni run.
I like it like this. I always have. Before anyone else arrives, I don’t have to be or do anything except enjoy the ice.
The locker room routine is automatic, which is useful, because thinking lately has been doing more harm than good. I sit with my stick across my thighs and start taping the blade. Black - always black. I tape with even passes, making sure there’s no overlap. I’ve done it this way for years, long enough that I don’t remember deciding on it. I press the tape down with my thumb and smooth it into the curve, I love the neatness of it, and the sense of control.
But the sense of control doesn’t translate, and that’s the whole problem.
On my way back into the rink, I glance up at the rafters - at the teal banners bearing the Blackwood Giants name.
The banners symbolize the version of this team that people still talk about like it’s inevitable we’ll get back there, like it’s a matter of time and not something we’ve been actively failing at for years. And which I’ve personally been failing at in my two years of captaincy. Last season was supposed to be different. And for a while it was. Suddenly we had breakouts that worked and lines that were formidable rather than reactive. A run of wins for the first time since I’ve been in Blackwood College.
And then everything got messy. The scandal and the ensuing headlines.
A girl in our team - on our ice playing disguised as a guy, against all the rules. Not that we knew about it until it was far too late - but still, we had games forfeited and, ultimately, it cost us the Cup. Half the league thinks we cheated. The other half thinks we got robbed. Since it all came out a few months ago, we haven’t been able to capture the magic of that pre-Christmas winning streak. In fact, we’ve lost every single game since.
I press the tape down harder than I need to and head for the door.
The ice is untouched when I step onto it, smooth and pale under the low lights. I stand at center and let my weight settle before I push off.
This is it. This year is my shot at whatever comes next.
Scouts came last season when we were winning but whatever I did wasn’t enough. Maybe they’ll come again. Or maybe they’ve already made up their minds about what I am - good enough here, not enough for anywhere else - and no one’s bothered to tell me yet.
I straighten and push off again.
I don’t hear Calloway come in, but I know when he’s there.
“Early,” he says from the bench.
I do a slow loop before pulling up near the blue line.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh and sits with his thermos, watching me.
“You might find her challenging,” he says, cryptically.
I don’t ask who. I skate a small, idle circle and wait.
“New skating coach. Elida Eriksson. She starts today.”
I pull up properly at that. “We already have skating coaches.”
“Not like this one.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “She’s a professional figure skater from Sweden. She’s in her early twenties, but she’s already competed at the highest level. We’re lucky to have her.”
I stare at him. “A figure skater.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Aprofessionalfigure skater.” I can hear myself, and I know I sound like an idiot, but I can’t quite get there fast enough. “From Sweden.”
