The little treatment room Tara gave me feels even smaller after practice.
The adrenaline has worn off now, leaving that mix of exhaustion and doubt that always follows a hard skate. I sit on the bench, slowly unlacing my skates.
My hands are shaking slightly.
Highs and lows. That’s the only way to describe it.
Some moments out there felt incredible. Like when Russo and Zane and I suddenly clicked for that rush down the ice - the timing perfect, the pass landing exactly where it should, the puck snapping into the net before Chen could react.
For a few seconds it felt effortless. Like I belonged there.
Then there were the other moments.
The ones where the pace didn’t slow down and my lungs started burning halfway through a drill. The ones where someone bumped into me and my balance gave just a little too easily.
And Mercer’s hit. I rub the back of my shoulder where the bruise is already starting to bloom.
What was I thinking?
This whole thing is one bad decision stacked on another.
The lie is one mistake away from completely blowing up.
I pull my helmet and skull cap off and run a handthrough my hair, letting out a quiet breath.
Maybe Markus was right.
Maybe I should have transferred somewhere with a real women’s team instead of trying something ridiculous like this. Right now, it feels less like an adventure and more like a disaster waiting to happen.
Can I really keep up with them? Survive the hits?
Survive the secret?
The doubt is huge enough that I want to quit before this goes any further.
Then I remember the feeling of setting up the perfect goal and the rush of skating competitively again.
God, I missed that feeling.
Even after everything that went wrong this morning, I’m not ready to give it up again.
ZANE
The locker room is loud again after practice.
Gear hits the floor, tape gets ripped off wrists, someone turns the music on low in the corner. Normally it’s the usual post-practice chaos, guys half-arguing about drills or bantering with each other.
Today there’s only one topic.
The new recruit.
“Did he say a single word?” someone asks from down the row.
“Not to me,” another voice replies.
I sit on the bench unlacing my skates while the conversation bounces around the room.
Luke Mercer is shaking his head.
