“Please, Golda. I’m begging you.” Kyla’s voice takes on a desperate edge. “The news crews are here, the mayor is here, and if we don’t have a live anthem, I’m going to have to explain to management why their charity event looks unprofessional on the evening news.”
I look around the arena, taking in the news cameras, the crowd, the corporate sponsors whose logos are plastered on every available surface. This isn’t just a hockey game—it’s a marketing event, and Kyla’s career probably depends on it going smoothly.
More importantly, her future voice-over budgets depend on it.
“Fine,” I say, and immediately regret it. “But if I embarrass myself, I’m sending you my therapy bills.”
Kyla practically throws her arms around me. “You’re a lifesaver! Literally! And I meant what I said about the work—you’ll be our go-to for everything.”
As she rushes off to arrange whatever needs arranging, Blythe grins at me with the satisfaction of someone who’s just successfully manipulated an adult.
“This is going to be so cool,” she says. “Wait until I tell everyone at school that my mom sang at a professional hockey game!”
“If I don’t die of terror first,” I mutter.
But the promise of steady work echoes in my head, drowning out most of the panic. Financial security. Regular income. The ability to say yes to my kids’ activities without constantly calculating bills.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the tunnel with a wireless mic clipped to my sweater and the distinct feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake. The sound tech—who looks about twelve—just finished explaining the mic system, though I stopped listening after “try not to drop it.”
“You’ll be fine,” Kyla says, which is easy for her to say since she’s not about to humiliate herself on live television.
The arena noisehits me like a wall. Through the tunnel, I can see the ice under those brutal bright lights, and suddenly I remember why I stopped performing. Why I chose the safety of sound booths over the terror of live audiences.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Golda Adler to perform our national anthem.”
Christ. There’s no backing out now.
The walk to center ice feels like a death march. The rubber mat is the only thing keeping me from falling flat on my ass in front of the mayor and Channel 7 News. The crowd noise fades to background hum as my brain focuses on the truly important things, like not tripping or forgetting the words or having my voice crack on national television.
Center ice is exactly as lonely as I expected. The cameras are obvious—big black lenses pointed at me like they’re waiting for me to screw up. Which I probably will.
I spot Blythe in the stands, giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up like this was all her idea. Which it was. Tyson’s on the player bench, sitting perfectly still, probably praying his mom doesn’t embarrass him in front of his new teammates.
The mic is cold and heavier than it should be. I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember everything Professor Rothman taught me about breath support and resonance, back when I thought I might actually make a living at this.
When I start singing, my voice carries better than expected. The acoustics in here are actually decent, and muscle memory kicks in somewhere around “twilight’s last gleaming.” I’ve sung this song a thousand times—in the shower, at baseball games, during those long drives when the radio cuts out.
The high note comes and goes without disaster. The silence afterward is the good kind—people actually listened instead of just waiting for it to be over.
The applause starts and I get off the ice as quickly as possible without actually running. But I catch a glimpse of the player bench on my way out, where every professional hockey player is staring at me like I just performed actual magic.
Including Dex, whose mouth is hanging open like someone forgot to tell him to close it.
I don’t have time to figure out what that expression means. I just want to get back to the safety of the stands where I can pretend this never happened.
Except Blythe is bouncing in her seat like she just watched her mom win the lottery, and even from here I can see Tyson grinning on the bench.
At least I didn’t embarrass them. That’s something.
4
DEX
I’ve taken hits before.Had the wind knocked clean out of me. Caught an elbow to the face that left me seeing stars. But this? This feels like someone just rearranged my entire brain without warning.
“Malone!” Barrett’s voice cuts through whatever the hell just happened to my nervous system. “Game’s starting! Let’s go!”
Right. The game. The charity exhibition where I’m supposed to demolish some weekend warriors while looking impressive in front of the woman who just made my soul leave my body with her voice.
