“That’s my territory.”
“Jersey fittings?” I ask.
“I’ll handle that too,” she says. “Baggy cuts. Extra padding if needed.”
She tilts her head slightly. “And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Locker room culture. Hockey players are loud. They’re crude. They say stupid things. Half of it means nothing.”
I nod.
“Your job is simple. Laugh when they laugh. Ignore whatdoesn’t concern you. Don’t let it worry you. You already proved you can skate with them. The rest is survival.”
I take a slow breath.
“That’s… a lot.”
“Yes,” Tara agrees.
Then she smiles again. “But you’re a Shaw. And Shaws have never exactly been known for doing things the easy way.”
I feel a flicker of determination spark through the nerves.
The dorm is quiet when I get back.
Both of my flatmates’ doors are closed, although faint music is humming behind Willow’s.
It means there’s no one to stop me or ask me questions, which is good.
The moment I step into my room, the reality of tomorrow sinks in fully.
A real hockey practice. With a male team.
I close the door softly and kneel beside the old equipment bag I pulled from the back of my wardrobe earlier.
It’s scuffed and faded now, the zipper sticking slightly as I pull it open. The smell hits me immediately - old leather and the faint dusty scent of gear that hasn’t been used for a while.
I sit there for a moment before finally reaching in.
My stick comes out first.
Not the one I used at the tryout. This one’s older, the blade worn smooth from years of use. Dad had given it to me during my first proper junior season, standing beside the rink boards while I inspected it like it was made of gold.
“Take care of it,” he’d said.
I run my thumb along the edge of the blade now.
I grab a roll of tape from the bag and sit cross-legged on thefloor.
The motion comes back instantly.
Wrap the toe.
Pull the tape tight.
Angle the spiral just slightly so the puck grips properly.
