“I got it,” Brody mutters, his eyes darting to Bishy like ‘what the fuck was that all about?’
We move toward our stalls. Brody is already half in his gear and is lacing his pads. “Listen,” he says as I sit down hard, yanking off my hoodie. “You’re captain now. Just concentrate on that. What was that about anyway?”
I pull off my jeans and start working on my compression layer. “I’ll tell you later.”
We finish gearing up, pads, socks, garters, jock, shoulder pads, gloves tucked into our belts. The boys start filing out one by one, sticks in hand, visors on, and helmets clipped loosely as they head toward the tunnel.
Just as I go to stand, Bishy walks past me. “Pussy,” he snarls under his breath.
I growl, deep and guttural, and lunge forward in my seat just enough for Brody to shoot out a hand.
He’s fast and shoves me back with a look. “Come on. Let’s go,” he mutters.
We step out into the hallway, both of us fully geared up, sweat already forming under my chest protector. We start heading down the tunnel, where the familiar sting of ice hits my senses.
I don’t say anything. But I’m not done with Bishy. Not even close.
The dull scuff of our skates on rubber echoes through the tunnel, steady and deliberate. Brody keeps pace at my side,his gaze flicking toward me like he’s waiting for something to explode again. I don’t give it to him. Not yet.
The air down here always stinks of something, melted ice, worn leather, or sour sweat baked into the walls. But it’s the cold creeping into my lungs that anchors me. Keeps me from thinking too hard.
The tunnel widens.
The arena opens up like a gaping mouth ahead of us—dark, quiet, expectant. Rows of empty seats vanish into the shadows. The jumbotron’s off. The boards stand still like they’re bracing for impact. Something about it makes your gut twist, like the calm before the hit.
I step onto the ice.
That cold rush blasts up through my skates, straight to my spine. It’s a slap in the face.
I need it because my brain just won’t shut up. Cassy. Her face. Last night. The way her eyes lit up when she told me she was pregnant.
I’d never felt anything like that. Like the whole damn world had finally tilted into place.
Then, after Bishy... she was gone.
I try to shove it down, bury it under drills, discipline, and this goddamn captain’s duty everyone keeps talking about. I’m the Aces’ captain now. I have to look like it. Lead like it. Pretend like nothing’s clawing at my chest.
The surface is glass-slick, broken only by a few lazy arcs from the rink crew. One of them gives the net a final yank, testing the posts. Everything else is untouched and waits to be wrecked.
From the bench, McCullum’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip. “Okay, this morning, we’re starting with skating drills, twenty minutes. Then stickhandling. After that, the usual passing drills. We’ll finish up with defensive work. And you better train like champions and not school kids. GOT IT?!”
There’s a mumbled wave of “yes, okay,” like no one wants to be first to make noise.
I glance at the guys. Brody is already stretching out on the line, and McAvoy is fiddling with his visor.
I barely look at Bishy. He’s at the far end, grinning like none of this morning happened, shooting the shit with Peters. He looks too relaxed. Too smug. It grates under my skin.
The whistle blows.
First, push off.
My blades bite deep, driving hard, ice spraying up as I fly forward. The wind rushes past my ears, and the cold licks my cheeks, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I lean into the turn, cut across the neutral zone, carve hard at the goal line, and surge around the back of the net. Each stride is violent and focused.
Brody’s just behind me, but I just see blurs of blue and white on the ice. The sound of blades on ice builds around us, scraping, slicing, hammering through the rink like a storm gathering speed.
We move through edge work. Crossovers. Transitions. Tight stops. Pivots that rip up the ice. My quads scream. Good. Let them.
“Alright, girls,” Danny’s voice breaks through the fog. “Grab your sticks, stickhandling drills next!”
