Chapter Eleven
Monroe
I’ve completed two full weeks of school now, and I am finding that it’s infinitely easier to not fall behind in school when you actually make it a priority.
Who knew.
If my life had gone even a little bit closer to how I’d envisioned, I’d be gearing up for a future in competition commentary, maybe coaching other Olympic hopefuls.
I loved the idea of ethical sports coverage, of being a voice in women’s sports.
I had tossed around the idea of starting a figure skating commentary podcast with Aaron a couple of years ago—Just Lutzing Around—but he’d thought it was stupid, so I dropped it.
Now, I wonder what I’ll do with my degree once I’ve graduated.
Would anyone care about the opinion of a failed, almost-Olympic has-been?
I mull it over for a moment, but I already know the answer.
My laptop buzzes and heats up on my lap, reminding me that I’ve been using it for several hours now without a real break.
Another first for Monroe—a full day of homework. An empty iced coffee cup sits on my coffee table, surrounded by papers. Gilmore Girls is on in the background, on mute. The colors from the TV screen feel comforting in my dim living room.
I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. My apartment is quiet. It usually is. My phone is quiet, too.
It used to buzz constantly—Nationals team group chat, my mom, my dad. Never a boyfriend, though, not in a long time. The last one was an absolute disaster.
Jacob Pearlman, my freshman and sophomore year at school.
He was an NHL hopeful skating for U of C’s team with dreams of going pro.
When he didn’t get drafted, and it was obvious I’d keep competing long past college, he got pissy and took his frustration out on me.
Two long years of subpar sex, not a single orgasm I didn’t give myself, and one-dimensional conversations that rarely strayed from skating.
It ended with a leaked video of Jacob and his dick inside a bouncing puck bunny. Fun.
I swore off hockey players after that, and focused on skating with the occasional hookups, and drunken dalliances with strangers over the last year.
I’ve isolated myself so much that now, nobody calls. Nobody invites me out. There’s nobody left to invite me out. The girls on the Nationals team might as well have thought a shattered ankle was contagious, for how fast I was erased from the group.
I glance at my empty phone, picking it up. My fingers hover over the screen.
The loneliness isn’t new. But noticing it is.
Aside from my dad and Elsie—ish—there was only one person left. And I wasn’t even sure if he counted.
The realization stings a little more than I want to admit.
Shit. I think Rhodes might be my only friend.
Friend? I roll the word over my tongue, next to Rhodes’ name.
Friend-adjacent, maybe. A friend-adjacent that I am doing a really bang-up job of pushing away right now.
For some reason I can’t fully fathom, he’s shown up for me more than once now.
Rhodes certainly isn’t hurting for friends, and the thought that he might be taking me on as a charity sits heavy in my chest.
I snuggle myself deeper into the couch. Maybe if I suffocate, I’ll stop feeling the sting of the constant embarrassment that is my life.
Pathetic.
I open up my messages app and type his name. Our last conversation glows on the screen.
Me (9:47pm): Meet me at the rink.
He hadn’t responded. But he’d been there anyway. I let out a groan, slumping back against the couch, thumb hovering over the keyboard as I debate texting him again. Is it pathetic to double text your almost-friends?
Before I can overthink it too much, a banner notification slides across the top of my screen.
Score App: Game day—Wolverines vs. Predators. Puck drop at 7:00 p.m.
It was Rhodes’ first game back on the ice. I had almost forgotten after my day spent elbow-deep in coursework. Since it wasn’t a home game, I wasn’t working at the rink tonight.
I glance at the time—six-forty-nine p.m. Puck drop was in eleven minutes.
For a second, I hesitate. Then I grab the remote off my coffee table, flipping through channels until I find it—Connecticut Wolverines vs. Nashville Predators.
Dad had flown out with the team to Tennessee this morning. When the camera cuts to the Wolverines bench, I spot him instantly, arms crossed, watching his players with sharp-eyed intensity.
Three minutes to the game.
The camera shifts to Rhodes, and the sports commentators launch into their discussion about his season.
“And here he is—number ninety-one, Rhodes McKnight, back on the ice after serving his suspension. And you can tell he is hungry for this game.”
“No doubt about it. McKnight has a lot to prove tonight—not just to the fans but to his teammates. He’s got a reputation for being a tough, gritty player, but the Wolverines need him to be more than that.”
I watch the screen intently. Rhodes skates forward for the face-off, stick ready. The ref blows the whistle, drops the puck, and Rhodes moves like lightning to shoot the puck to Beck.
“And he’s wasting no time getting into the action—McKnight wins the face-off clean, dumps it to Larsson on the wing—oh, what a setup! Beck Larsson fires and scores! Wolverines are on the board!”
“That’s the leadership we’ve been waiting to see from McKnight. It’s not just about the fights and the penalties—it’s about making plays. That was a beautiful pass, and you can see the bench feeding off that energy.”
I narrow my eyes at the television. “About time, McKnight,” I say to myself. I watch the players glide across the ice, gnawing at my lower lip in anticipation.
“McKnight back in the neutral zone—and here he goes. He’s got speed, he’s got space, takes it himself, stickhandling—he shoots! Oh! Off the post! The crowd thought that was in!”
“That’s the Rhodes McKnight we know—fast, aggressive, and not afraid to take the shot. You know he’s gonna want that one back.”
Shit, that was a good shot.
It’s the best they’ve played all season by a long shot. Dad is going to be stoked when he gets back. Even if they don’t win, the team is playing incredibly well tonight, better than they have all season long.
“Third period now, Wolverines up by one—McKnight on the forecheck—huge hit in the corner! And he comes away with the puck! Sets up Callahan in the slot—scores! Rhodes McKnight with his second assist of the night, and the Wolverines take a two-goal lead!”
“McKnight is doing it all tonight. He’s setting up plays, getting physical, leading by example. It’s exactly what this team needed.”
“Under two minutes to go, the Predators pull their goalie—McKnight’s on the ice, empty net chance. He takes it down the ice—he shoots, oh my God, he scores! Rhodes McKnight caps off his return with an empty-net goal! And that’s the game!”
“What a night for McKnight. A goal, two assists, and, most importantly, the Wolverines are back on the map for playoffs. They might actually have a real chance of making it this year.”
Despite myself, there is a small, stupid smile on my face. I shake my head and try to clear the thoughts of Rhodes from my brain.
I glance back at the TV, where the end-of-game interviews are going on, and I turn up the volume.
I should turn it off, not turn it up. I should absolutely, one hundred percent turn it off.
I turn it up louder. My eyes are locked on the screen, fingers gripping the remote.
The camera cuts to the Wolverines bench, zooming in on Rhodes. His helmet is off, dark hair damp with sweat, jersey clinging to the broad planes of his shoulders. He looks good. I track the team as they walk off to do their media interviews.
The TV cuts to the reporters covering post-game and Cassie Langford is there, bright smile, mic in hand, looking every bit like the golden girl of NHL reporting.
“Rhodes McKnight,” she starts, her voice smooth, practiced. “Hell of a game tonight. First game back after suspension, and you lead the team to a four-two win. How does it feel?”
Rhodes grins, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to play humble. He’s not. He knows exactly how good he was tonight.
Cocky bastard. I grin despite myself.
“Yeah, it felt good,” he says easily. “Boys came out strong, really put the pressure on. I just did my job.”
Cassie tilts her head, smiling. “Your job included two goals and two assists. That’s quite the comeback performance. Your fans must be thrilled you’re back on the ice.”
Rhodes laughs—low and warm, the kind that makes people lean in to listen to him.
I lean back, arms crossed, and scowl at the screen.
“Well, you know me,” he says, flashing a grin and a wink at the camera. “Gotta make up for lost time.”
Cassie’s lashes flutter. Flutter.
“Idiot,” I mumble, glaring.
“And I have to ask,” she continues, shifting the mic closer. “There’s been a lot of talk about leadership this season. Some tension in the locker room. A broken nose, maybe? Do you feel like you’ve proven you’re still the guy to lead this team?”
Rhodes exhales, nodding. “I mean, listen,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “at the end of the day, it’s about the team.
We had some shit—stuff,” he corrects with a smirk, and Cassie laughs, again, “to work through early in the season. Hell, we’re still working through it.
We had a lot of shake-ups this season. But I love these guys.
I’m proud of them. It’s only going to go up from here. ”
My heart squeezes with pride for my dad’s team. Rhodes played so well tonight. The whole team did.
“Sounds like you’re settling back into the rhythm,” Cassie says, voice warm.
Instantly, the warmth in my chest I was just feeling is replaced by irritation at the woman standing less than two feet away from Rhodes. Would it kill her to back up, just a little?
Rhodes flashes another easy grin at the camera and waves. “I hope so. Good talking to you, Cass.”
Cass.
I stab the power button on the remote, cutting the interview off mid-sentence. The silence of my apartment rings louder than the broadcast.
I sit in the quiet, scowling in the dark room, then I pick up my phone and open Rhodes’ text messages again. Before I can stop myself, I’m typing out a text and hitting send.
Me (10:01pm): Not bad, McKnight.
I wait impatiently for the three little dots to appear at the bottom of the screen.
Rhodes (10:10pm): You watch my game, Abrams?
Me (10:16pm): Gotta support Dad!
Rhodes (10:17pm): Uh-huh. That the only reason?
Me (10:18pm): Obviously.
Rhodes (10:20pm): Whatever helps you sleep at night.
Me (10:21pm): You reached too hard for that puck in the third.
Rhodes (10:25pm): I did not!
Me (10:26pm): [replay video attached]
Rhodes (10:28pm): Whatever, Abrams. I scored twice.
Me (10:29pm): Despite your shortcomings, the team prevails. Congrats on the win, Rhodes.
Rhodes (10:35pm): Thanks, Monroe.
I don’t bother responding.
I type out a quick congratulations to my dad before a yawn sneaks up on me and I decide it’s probably time to go to bed.