“I’m home.”
She holds me tighter. “I read the article. The one from Tennant.”
I tense. “Mom-”
She pulls back and cups my face in her hands. “Your father would have been proud of you. I need you to know that. But… do you remember when you told me about underwater hockey?”
I wince. “I’m so sorry.”
“I knew you were lying. Obviously.”
“You DID?”
“Leonora. Underwater hockey.” She shakes her head. “I googled it. And I saw the cuts on your face when we video called. You think I don’t know when my daughter is playing hockey?”
“Then why didn’t you-”
“Because you needed to do this yourself.” She takes my hands. “You needed to find your way back to the ice. And you did.”
Three weeks later, I’m standing in a parking lot in Toronto, staring at a building that saysPWHL NEW YORKin block letters across the front.
My gear bag is slung over my shoulder. My skates are in my hand.
“Stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”
I turn. Markus is leaning against his rental car, arms crossed, that familiar grin on his face.
“You drove six hours for a tryout,” I say.
“I drove six hours to watch my little sister try out for aprofessional hockey team. There’s a difference.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yeah, I did. You remember what Dad used to say before big games?”
“Head up. Read the play. Don’t rush it.”
He taps my helmet. “You’ve got this. You’re a Shaw. Now go show them what that means.”
There are twelve other players on the ice. Women. All of them are older than me, most of them with more experience.
I don’t think about that.
I think about Markus in the parking lot. I think about Zane, somewhere across the country, probably pacing his apartment because he can’t be here. I think about my father, standing behind the bench, telling me to keep my head up.
The whistle blows.
The drill starts.
I skate.
Afterward, I’m sitting on a bench in the locker room, half out of my gear, trying to remember how to breathe.
Sofia Ramirez finds me there.
“You skated well,” she says.
“I was nervous.”
