Chapter 7
LEONORA
The walk to the medical room is the longest five minutes of my life.
Every step down the corridor makes my stomach twist tighter. The adrenaline from the tryout has completely vanished now, replaced by a steady pulse of panic.
How did I not think about the physical exam? This may be a struggling college hockey team but even they have protocols.
The door to the medical room is slightly open when I arrive. I knock once, awkwardly.
“Come in,” a voice calls.
I push the door open.
The room is small and bright, the kind of clean clinical space that smells faintly of antiseptic. Treatment tables line one wall and there are shelves stacked with braces and rolls of tape.
Behind the desk stands Tara Lorimer.
I practically grew up with this woman. And I’ve seen her on the Giants’ bench at every game I’ve been to, crouched beside injured players with her ever-present roll of tape.
It’s almost like I’m familiar to her too. Or maybe my active imagination is just imposing something that isn’t there.
Still, I could swear there’s a slight pause as her eyes land on me.
“Alright,” she says easily, gesturing toward the treatment table. “Let’s take a quick look and get you cleared.”
I sit as she picks up a clipboard.
“Helmet off for me.”
Game over.
For a moment I just sit there.
I imagine Coach finding out. Being thrown off the ice before I even get one proper shift. I couldn’t face disciplinary action for this, could I? Is my place in college at risk?
This was stupid and dishonest. The risk was always too big.
Slowly, I reach up and lift the helmet.
My hair is still tucked under the skullcap but it’s blatantly obvious.
Tara stares at me. Then, inexplicably, she laughs. Her laugh is warm, not cruel.
“Leonora Shaw,” she says. “I thought so.”
I’m speechless.
“You skate like your dad,” she continues, shaking her head slightly in amusement. “And your brother, for that matter. I’ve seen enough of your family in my work to know it instantly.”
She studies me with her arms folded.
“Another way to phrase it is this: natural talent.”
“So, you knew?”
“I strongly suspected it by the second drill,” she says cheerfully.
“I’m-”
“What are you doing applying for this team?” she interrupts, though there’s curiosity in her tone rather than accusation.
I hesitate.
“Well… I go to college here now and there’s no women’s team,” I say finally.
“Ah.”
She nods slowly.
“Yes,” she says, “I was there when they cut the funding. I argued against it. Loudly.”
She shrugs. “My voice got drowned out pretty quickly.”
That doesn’t surprise me.
“So,” she says, looking at me thoughtfully, “I understand why you’re doing this.”
“You… do?”
“Of course I do.”
She gestures toward the door that leads back toward the rink.
“You want to play.”
It sounds so simple when she says it.
“But,” she adds gently, “you can’t do this alone.”
I look at her.
She meets my gaze steadily.
“You need an ally. Let me help you.”
“How?”
“Well,” she says, thinking aloud now, “the first problem is obvious.”
She gestures vaguely toward me. “Facilities.”
It takes me a second to realize what she means.
Locker rooms. Changing into and out of the kit, showers after games.
From the look on my face, she clearly realizes something.
“You hadn’t even thought about that yet, had you?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
“No.”
She laughs again, softer this time.
“Trust me. You wouldn’t last a day without solving that problem.”
She taps the clipboard thoughtfully.
“I can arrange a separate space. Locker, shower, changing area.”
“You can?”
“I’m the physio,” she says with a shrug. “I deal with medical accommodations all the time.”
She pauses, thinking.
“I could list it as a special condition.”
“Like what?”
“Privacy requirements during rehabilitation,” she says immediately. “Something along those lines. Not uncommon.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “No one will question it.”
“Why would you do that?”
Tara looks at me for a long moment - then she smiles slightly.
“Because you skated well enough today to earn a place on that ice. And frankly, you deserve a women’s team of your own. If this college refuses to fund female players, that’s their choice. But I won’t stand in the way of female talent.”
Then she adds quietly, “and Leonora… your dad was a fantastic colleague. You remind me of him a lot.”
ZANE
The locker room is louder than usual. Not chaotic, exactly, but restless. Everyone’s half-changed out of their gear, conversations bouncing around the room as people speculate about the tryout.
Russo is leaning back against his locker beside me.
“Place your bets,” he mutters. “Miracle guy or nobody?”
Suddenly Coach walks in and the room quietens immediately. He doesn’t waste time.
“We’ve made a decision,” he says. “Lee Shaw.”
There’s a brief pause as the name lands.
“That’s who we’re bringing in.”
Russo glances at me.
“Miracle guy,” he murmurs.
“It’s a temporary place while Grant recovers. Shaw starts training with us this week.”
Lee Shaw.
Guess we have a name now.
Coach folds his arms.
“There are a couple of special conditions that come with this arrangement.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
“Medical privacy requirements,” he explains calmly. “So, Shaw will have a separate locker and shower space.”
A few eyebrows lift around the room, but no one questions it.
Medical stuff isn’t unusual in sports.
“But despite that,” Coach adds, “he’s part of the team.”
His gaze moves slowly across the room. “Treat him well.”
That part lands more firmly.
Coach nods once. “Training the day after tomorrow.”
Then he turns and heads for the door.
The room immediately fills with conversation again.
“Lee Shaw,” someone repeats.
“Never heard of him.”
Russo nudges my shoulder. “You skated with him - what do you think?”
“He’s good,” I admit.
“Then maybe our miracle showed up after all.”
A scoff comes from the locker across the aisle.
Luke Mercer shakes his head as he yanks off one of his gloves.
“Miracle?” he says. “Please.”
Russo looks over. “You didn’t like what you saw?”
Mercer shrugs. “Sure, he’s got hands. I’ll give him that. But did you see his size?”
I know exactly what he means.
“This isn’t intramurals,” Mercer continues. “You think he’s going to last out there when teams see his size and take advantage of it?”
Russo opens his mouth to argue, but Mercer beats him to it.
“First proper hit and he’s getting flattened.”
A couple of guys nearby chuckle.
I don’t laugh.
Because, annoyingly, Mercer isn’t entirely wrong.
Up close, the new guy had looked smaller than most of the roster. Skill is one thing. But college hockey is fast and physical, and people don’t exactly hold back.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But he’s still the best we had.”
Mercer just shakes his head. “Let’s see how he handles getting hit before you sound so sure of that.”