Chapter 9
LEONORA
Fifteen minutes early.
Tara let me in through the side entrance exactly like she promised, the quiet corridor leading straight to the little treatment room she’s claimed as my “locker space.” It feels odd changing there alone - no noise or locker-room chaos, just the hum of the building waking up around me.
But it works.
The rink lights are already on when I step out onto the ice. The surface is untouched, smooth and pale under the bright overhead panels.
I skate in long, easy strides.
I circle the neutral zone once, then again, letting the rhythm calm my jitters.
This is real.
The door to the rink opens a few minutes later.
One of the defencemen walks in first, carrying his stick in one hand and a takeaway coffee cup in the other. Behind him another player appears, also holding coffee, still half-asleep and yawning. The smell drifts faintly across the rink as they gather near the bench, steaming cups in gloved hands.
My mouth waters instantly.
God, I would kill for coffee right now.
But I shake the thought away.
I can’t exactly stand around drinking coffee with them.
So instead, I keep skating slow circles at the far end of the rink, pretending I don’t notice.
More players filter in after that.
Zane Blake steps onto the ice next.
He skates a few warm-up laps, then glances my way.
For a moment his gaze lingers.
Probably just sizing me up again.
More players arrive, the noise level slowly rising as sticks hit the boards and conversations start bouncing across the ice.
Practice is about to begin.
And despite the nerves humming under my skin, I can’t stop the small smile forming inside my helmet.
ZANE
When I step onto the ice, the new guy is already there.
He’s skating slow laps in the neutral zone like he’s been here for a while.
I glance at the clock.
6:51.
Practice doesn’t start until seven.
I watch him as I glide toward the bench.
Part of me wonders if he’s trying to make the rest of us look bad. Show up early, skate like he owns the place, set the tone. I’m not sure if I’m impressed or annoyed.
Maybe it’s both.
Mercer skates past me.
“You see the rookie?” he mutters.
“Hard to miss.”
“He’s trying too hard.”
The rest of the team filters onto the ice and Coach calls us in.
Warm ups start.
The drills are fast today.
Quick transitions and full-speed rushes down the ice. Calloway’s clearly pushing the pace, probably testing how the new guy holds up under pressure.
At first Shaw does well.
Really well.
His edges are clean and he joins in with the drills without needing much explanation. When the puck comes to him, he handles it like he’s been doing this for years.
Technically?
He’s one of the better skaters out here.
But halfway through the drills, he starts to show.
His stamina isn’t where it needs to be.
The longer the drills run, the more his breathing changes. His strides shorten slightly, the kind of tiny adjustment you only notice if you’re watching closely.
Which I am.
He’s still keeping up, but barely.
Coach calls for a scrimmage.
Two teams.
I line up opposite him again.
Part of me wants to see what he’s made of.
Hockey is a physical game and if he’s going to play with us, he needs to survive contact.
The puck drops.
Within seconds the play swings toward the boards and Shaw collects it near the corner.
Perfect.
I close the gap fast.
Shoulder into his side, stick hooking toward the puck.
It’s a clean check. It’s not brutal - just enough pressure to see what happens.
He folds under it. His balance breaks, the puck slipping loose as he stumbles slightly against the boards.
I steal it easily.
That’s… not great.
I circle back into position as the play resets.
Mercer was right.
If he can’t hold his ground, bigger teams will eat him alive.
Coach shouts something and we switch lines.
This time Shaw jumps onto my side.
Left wing.
Russo at center.
Me on the right.
The puck drops again.
And suddenly something clicks.
Russo carries it through the neutral zone and slides a quick pass to Shaw along the boards. Shaw doesn’t hesitate - just taps it back toward the middle, drawing the defense slightly out of position.
Russo redirects it toward me.
I push forward, cutting toward the slot.
The defender closes in.
Instead of chasing the play, Shaw delays half a second, drifting into open ice before slipping the puck back across with a quick, sharp pass.
Perfect timing.
I fire it past Chen before the goalie can reset.
Goal.
Russo lets out a short laugh. “Well, that worked.”
I glance back at Shaw.
Inside the helmet I can see the quick flash of satisfaction across his face - not cocky, not showy. Just the quiet excitement of someone who knows the play worked exactly the way it should.
For the first time since this whole mess of a season started, I feel a flash of hope.
Practice is winding down when it happens.
The last scrimmage shift is almost over. Coach will be blowing the whistle any second. Shaw is skating up the rink with the puck when Luke Mercer barrels into him.
Hard.
Too hard for the end of a practice session.
Shaw hits the ice and Mercer skates off like nothing happened.
I stay back where I am, watching.
For a second Shaw doesn’t move.
Then he pushes himself upright and gets back on his skates.
“I’m good,” he mutters quickly when someone nearby asks. “Didn’t hurt.”
But I can see the slight stiffness in his stride as he glides toward the bench.
He’s rolling one shoulder carefully.
Yeah.
That definitely hurt.
And suddenly I’m not thinking about miracle recruits or clever passes.
I’m wondering how long he’ll last out here.
LEONORA
The little treatment room Tara gave me feels even smaller after practice.
The adrenaline has worn off now, leaving that mix of exhaustion and doubt that always follows a hard skate. I sit on the bench, slowly unlacing my skates.
My hands are shaking slightly.
Highs and lows. That’s the only way to describe it.
Some moments out there felt incredible. Like when Russo and Zane and I suddenly clicked for that rush down the ice - the timing perfect, the pass landing exactly where it should, the puck snapping into the net before Chen could react.
For a few seconds it felt effortless. Like I belonged there.
Then there were the other moments.
The ones where the pace didn’t slow down and my lungs started burning halfway through a drill. The ones where someone bumped into me and my balance gave just a little too easily.
And Mercer’s hit. I rub the back of my shoulder where the bruise is already starting to bloom.
What was I thinking?
This whole thing is one bad decision stacked on another.
The lie is one mistake away from completely blowing up.
I pull my helmet and skull cap off and run a hand through my hair, letting out a quiet breath.
Maybe Markus was right.
Maybe I should have transferred somewhere with a real women’s team instead of trying something ridiculous like this. Right now, it feels less like an adventure and more like a disaster waiting to happen.
Can I really keep up with them? Survive the hits?
Survive the secret?
The doubt is huge enough that I want to quit before this goes any further.
Then I remember the feeling of setting up the perfect goal and the rush of skating competitively again.
God, I missed that feeling.
Even after everything that went wrong this morning, I’m not ready to give it up again.
ZANE
The locker room is loud again after practice.
Gear hits the floor, tape gets ripped off wrists, someone turns the music on low in the corner. Normally it’s the usual post-practice chaos, guys half-arguing about drills or bantering with each other.
Today there’s only one topic.
The new recruit.
“Did he say a single word?” someone asks from down the row.
“Not to me,” another voice replies.
I sit on the bench unlacing my skates while the conversation bounces around the room.
Luke Mercer is shaking his head.
“Guy barely spoke the whole practice,” he says. “Didn’t even sit with anyone before warm ups.”
Someone shrugs. “Maybe he’s shy.”
Mercer snorts. “We’re not running a book club. If you’re on this team, you’re part of the team.”
A few guys nod.
“He didn’t even come into the locker room,” someone adds.
“Yeah,” Mercer says. “All that stuff about a separate changing room. It’s extreme.”
No one disagrees.
Medical privacy happens sometimes, but this level of separation is unusual. It makes the new guy feel… removed. Like he’s not actually one of us.
“That’s not what we need right now,” Mercer continues. “Last thing we need is some mystery guy who doesn’t want to be part of the group.”
I finish pulling my skates off.
“Your hit was unnecessary, though” I say.
The room quiets slightly.
Mercer looks over. “Unnecessary?”
“You flattened him.”
“It was a check.”
“It was the last shift of practice.”
Mercer shrugs. “Opposition won’t care what shift it is.”
He pushes off the locker and grabs his water bottle.
“If he’s going to play in this league, he needs to know what it feels like. “It’s not going to be easier in an actual game.”
From the other side of the room Chen runs a hand through his hair.
“Still,” he says casually, “he did set up a pretty good shot - it got past me, anyway. Kid’s got hands.”
“Yeah,” someone else mutters. “Hands don’t stop a body check.”
A few guys laugh quietly.
The overall mood in the room isn’t exactly welcoming.
More like cautious. Suspicious even.
Finally, Russo speaks up.
He’s been quiet this whole time, sitting on the bench taping his stick with slow, deliberate movements.
“We’re missing the point,” he says.
Russo glances around at all of us. “Yeah, he’s weird.”
That gets a few smirks.
“And yeah, the whole separate-room thing is unusual. But he can skate.”
That part no one argues.
“We just have to fix the stuff he’s weak at.”
Russo looks around the room one more time.
“Like it or not,” he says, “he’s all we’ve got right now.”