1
LEONORA
The arena hasn’t changed.
I know it the second I step inside.
Cold air rolls over the concrete corridor, carrying the familiar mix of ice and popcorn. The sound of skates cuts through the building in quick scrapes, echoing off the metal rafters above the rink. It’s a sound I grew up with, a sound that used to mean long nights and homework done on the bench behind the glass while my father barked instructions across the ice.
Five years.
Five years since I last sat in these stands as the coach’s daughter.
Now I’m finally enrolled in Blackwood College as a student. But when it comes to this team, I’m just a spectator.
I force myself forward and take a seat halfway down, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck as the Blackwood Giants cycle the puck in the offensive zone.
They’re sloppy – they make basic mistakes. The kind my dad used to stop practice for.
I don’t see hockey the way most people do. I never have. The game unfolds in patterns and timing - in decisions made halfa second too early or too late.
And right now?
The Giants are getting it wrong.
On the ice, the puck slides behind the net and comes back out along the boards.
The top line is out.
I recognize the center immediately. Mateo Russo.
His skating isn’t the strongest but he’s confident and thinks quickly. He skates like everything is under control even when it isn’t. Small adjustments. Smart positioning. The kind of player who thinks two moves ahead.
Russo collects the puck and feeds it across the slot to Zane Blake. He’s the star of the team - everyone on campus knows his name. Half the campus wants to date him. And he plays like he knows it.
The crowd reacts the second he touches it.
He’s fast. It kind of makes everyone else look slightly slower. He’s the kind of player who moves like the rules don’t quite apply to him. Stick loose in his hands, shoulders relaxed, like he knows exactly how dangerous he is.
He cuts inside.
For a second, it’s perfect.
Then he shoots too early.
The puck slams straight into the goalie’s pads and rebounds harmlessly into the corner.
He’s too eager.
A good goaltender reads that every time.
The play breaks down and the opposing team clears the zone.
Across the rink, the Giants’ goalie glides through his crease, tapping each post in a steady rhythm.
Miles Chen. The kind of goalie who spends entire gamesfixing everyone else’s mistakes.
My dad used to say that was the loneliest position in hockey.
