Chapter 8
LEONORA
You remind me of him.
I hear Tara’s words again and again as I walk across campus that afternoon, the sentence echoing in the quiet spaces between everything else.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m in my car, heading towards home. It’s only thirty minutes away.
That was one of the reasons I chose Blackwood College in the first place, even if I didn’t say it out loud at the time. I just didn’t want to be far from Mum.
The drive is familiar. I could probably do it blindfolded by now - past the small grocery store near campus, out onto the road that curves through the low fields, then the long stretch of trees before the town appears.
I pull into the driveway. Dad’s old truck is gone but the space where it used to sit is just as protected as if he were due home any moment.
I let myself in through the front door.
“Mom?”
“In the kitchen!”
The smell hits me immediately.
Chicken and stuffing. Real stuffing.
The kind she makes from scratch that somehow tastes better than anything else on earth.
I step into the kitchen, and she turns from what she’s doing, her face lighting up when she sees me.
“Well, look who remembered she has a home.”
“I come home all the time.”
“You came last month.”
“That counts.”
She laughs softly and pulls me into a quick hug before turning back to the oven.
“How’s college?”
“Good.”
“How are your roommates?”
“Making sports science bearable.”
“That’s encouraging.”
I lean against the counter and watch her move around the kitchen the way she always has - familiar motions that make the room feel cozier.
Dad used to sit at the table right there, reviewing game footage on his laptop while dinner cooked.
The memory hits so clearly I almost expect him to be there.
Instead, there’s just the quiet hum of the oven.
Mum glances at me. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Leonora.”
I sigh.
She knows me too well.
“Just… busy.”
She plates the food and slides a generous portion of chicken and stuffing with roast potatoes in front of me.
“Eat.”
I don’t argue.
The first bite makes me groan.
“Oh my god.”
She smiles slightly. “You don’t get food like this in the college canteen?”
“I wish.”
We eat for a few minutes in comfortable silence before she speaks again.
“So,” she says casually, “are you missing hockey?”
I freeze mid-bite.
She continues before I can answer.
“Now that you’re out of junior leagues.”
I swallow slowly. “Yeah, of course.”
She studies me over the table.
“Do you regret not going somewhere with a women’s team?”
If I hesitate too long, she’ll start asking questions. And the truth is absolutely not an option. So instead, my mouth betrays me completely.
“I’ve taken up underwater hockey.”
The words fall out before I can stop them. I immediately wish I could shove them straight back into my mouth.
Underwater hockey?
Where did that even come from?
Mum blinks. “Underwater hockey?”
I nod weakly. “Yes.”
Why did I say that?
She looks surprised but not suspicious. “Oh.”
There’s a pause.
“Well, that’s… different.”
I nod again, trying to look like this is a completely normal life choice.
“Very different.”
She tilts her head slightly. “How does that work?”
Oh no.
My brain scrambles desperately.
“Um… you wear snorkels.”
Brilliant start.
“And you push a puck along the bottom of the pool.”
“With sticks?”
“Tiny ones.”
I want the floor to open up and swallow me.
Mum nods thoughtfully.
“Well, that actually sounds quite athletic.”
“Oh, it is. I’m getting better at holding my breath.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sure.”
There’s another pause while she takes a sip of water. Then she smiles gently.
“You should tell me when one of your matches is. I could come watch.”
Oh my god. I’ve accidentally created a completely fictional sports career.
“That would be great,” I say weakly. “But really it’s just for fun.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“I’m glad you found something. You’ve always been so competitive - you need to channel it somewhere.”
And the truth is I have channeled my competitiveness somewhere.
Just not the thing she thinks.
ZANE
My business textbook sits open on the desk in front of me.
Technically I’m studying.
In reality I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes.
Market forecasting.
Thrilling.
I drag a hand through my hair and glance at the clock on the wall.
Mid-October.
The season has barely started and we’ve lost every single game so far.
It’s not supposed to look like this.
College hockey moves fast. If you want scouts to notice you, the early games matter. They set the tone. They tell people whether you’re worth watching when winter rolls around.
And right now?
No one’s watching.
Business is supposed to be the backup plan.
The thing I fall back on if hockey doesn’t work out.
But the whole point of a backup plan is that you’re not supposed to need it yet.
The season keeps replaying in my head.
That stupid losing streak is hanging over every game we play.
I grab my phone and scroll through the schedule again.
Loss.
Loss.
Loss.
Loss.
And now Tyler Grant is out.
Grant was solid on the left wing. Not flashy, not the guy pulling highlight plays, but dependable. The kind of player you don’t fully appreciate until he’s suddenly gone.
Which leaves us with our new recruit.
Lee Shaw.
Mercer’s voice echoes in my head again.
Did you see his size?
I rub the back of my neck.
Mercer wasn’t wrong.
Skill is great.
But hockey is still hockey.
If Shaw can’t handle the hits, he won’t last two games out there.
And if he doesn’t last…
Our season might be over before it even really begins.
LEONORA
The evening before the first practice, I meet Tara to go through logistics.
She closes the door to the treatment room and leans back against the counter, arms folded.
“Alright,” she says. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”
The excitement from the tryout is still humming in my veins, but the seriousness in her voice makes me straighten a little.
“This isn’t just ‘I’ll help you and hope for the best,’” she continues. “There are rules. Practical ones. If you want this to last longer than a week.”
“Okay.”
“Arrival times. You come early. Earlier than the rest of the team. I’ll unlock the physio entrance for you.”
“There’s a physio entrance?”
“Side corridor,” she says. “Most players are never anywhere near it. You use that, come straight here, and change.”
She gestures to a door behind her.
“I’ve got a small treatment room that isn’t being used this season. Locker, bench, shower. It’ll be yours.”
She pauses, thinking.
“Travel might be trickier.”
“Away games?”
“You can avoid the bus and travel with me,” Tara says. “We’ll think of a reason. But hotel room assignments and locker rooms will need managing. We’ll cross that bridge if we get there. You’re only here until Tyler Grant recovers, so maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Medical checks?” I ask carefully.
“That’s my territory.”
“Jersey fittings?” I ask.
“I’ll handle that too,” she says. “Baggy cuts. Extra padding if needed.”
She tilts her head slightly. “And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Locker room culture. Hockey players are loud. They’re crude. They say stupid things. Half of it means nothing.”
I nod.
“Your job is simple. Laugh when they laugh. Ignore what doesn’t concern you. Don’t let it worry you. You already proved you can skate with them. The rest is survival.”
I take a slow breath.
“That’s… a lot.”
“Yes,” Tara agrees.
Then she smiles again. “But you’re a Shaw. And Shaws have never exactly been known for doing things the easy way.”
I feel a flicker of determination spark through the nerves.
The dorm is quiet when I get back.
Both of my flatmates’ doors are closed, although faint music is humming behind Willow’s.
It means there’s no one to stop me or ask me questions, which is good.
The moment I step into my room, the reality of tomorrow sinks in fully.
A real hockey practice. With a male team.
I close the door softly and kneel beside the old equipment bag I pulled from the back of my wardrobe earlier.
It’s scuffed and faded now, the zipper sticking slightly as I pull it open. The smell hits me immediately - old leather and the faint dusty scent of gear that hasn’t been used for a while.
I sit there for a moment before finally reaching in.
My stick comes out first.
Not the one I used at the tryout. This one’s older, the blade worn smooth from years of use. Dad had given it to me during my first proper junior season, standing beside the rink boards while I inspected it like it was made of gold.
“Take care of it,” he’d said.
I run my thumb along the edge of the blade now.
I grab a roll of tape from the bag and sit cross-legged on the floor.
The motion comes back instantly.
Wrap the toe.
Pull the tape tight.
Angle the spiral just slightly so the puck grips properly.
It’s muscle memory, the kind you never really forget.
The room is completely silent except for the soft rip of tape.
By the time I finish, the stick looks ready for a real game again.
I set it down beside me and dig deeper into the bag.
A pair of gloves.
My old elbow pads.
Then something heavier.
Dad’s coaching whistle.
I hadn’t even realized it was still in here.
I turn it over in my hands, the metal cool against my palm.
I can almost hear his voice echoing across the rink again.
Head up, Leo.
Read the play - don’t rush it.
Tomorrow I’m going back onto the ice. It might not be under my own name, but I’ll still be playing the game he taught me.
I glance down at the stick leaning against my bed and at the gear laid out neatly beside it.
“I’m really doing this,” I whisper to the empty room.