“Don’t babysit.”
“I’m not babysitting. I’m playing my position.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m winning.”
She doesn’t respond. But when the puck drops again, she cuts harder, faster, like she’s proving something. Like she’s reminding me she doesn’t need protection.
I know she doesn’t.
But I’m not sure she knows how much I’m starting to need her.
The third period starts at two–one.
We’re winning. Barely. The Wolves have adjusted again, clogging the neutral zone, forcing us to earn every inch.
The puck swings into our zone with seven minutes left. Ichase it behind the net, shield it from their forechecker, and send it hard around the boards toward the far side.
Shaw is already moving to collect it.
I see the Wolves defenceman angling toward her. Kozlov. The same guy who’s been running her all game. He’s coming in fast, shoulder down, aiming to pin her into the glass.
I see the angle. It’s not clean. It’s not even close to clean. But the whistle hasn’t blown, the puck is still live, and in this league, that means it’s legal until someone decides it isn’t.
I push off the boards, trying to close the gap-
Too late.
LEONORA
The puck finds my stick along the boards.
The weight is familiar - the vibration through the blade. My body already knows what to do - head up, scan, find the lane. Russo is cutting toward the slot. Zane is trailing behind the play, looking for the rebound.
I pull the puck across my body, ready to pass.
Then I see the hit coming.
It’s not the angle I expected. Kozlov is coming in high - shoulder aimed at my collarbone. Of course he’s targeting my injury.
I brace.
The impact is worse than I expected.
His shoulder drives into me, just below the collar, and pain explodes across my chest. I’m already turning, trying to absorb it, trying to protect my ribs, trying to do everything Chen taught me-
But I’m off balance. The hit has too much force, too much height, and my head whips sideway, hitting off the boards.
I feel the helmet strap give. It’s completely snapped. Something small and mechanical that suddenly means everything.
The helmet lifts off my head before I can grab it.
I see it spinning in the air and then it’s on the ice, skittering toward the corner. The skullcap must have slipped sideways with the force of the impact - I feel my hair loose around my face, spilling over my shoulders, catching the cold arena air.
For one second, the world is silent.
The crowd doesn’t move. The players around me freeze. Kozlov, who was already turning to skate away, stops mid-stride and stares.
