Chapter 12
ZANE
By the time the Saturday night game rolls around, the arena feels different.
Not fuller - if anything, the stands are about the same as last night - but the mood has shifted slightly.
There’s a stubborn kind of optimism in the crowd tonight, the sort that only loyal fans manage after a losing streak.
They’re louder than they should be for a team that hasn’t won a single game yet.
The noise follows us onto the ice when the lights flare bright over the rink and the announcer calls out the lineup.
Our line hops over the boards early in the first period.
I glance once toward Shaw as we line up for the faceoff.
He looks the same as he always does - but something about the way he’s standing is different tonight. He looks looser… more settled.
Russo wins the draw clean.
The puck slides back to our defenceman, then up along the boards toward Shaw. A defender closes in immediately - a bigger guy with thick shoulders, the kind who clearly enjoys using them.
The defender hits him hard along the boards.
For a split second I wince.
Last night that kind of contact knocked him off balance every time.
But this time Shaw shifts just before impact.
It’s subtle. Just a quick turn of his hips, which meant that instead of folding under the check, he absorbs it sideways, bouncing off the glass and sliding back onto his skates almost instantly.
The puck stays on his stick.
Huh.
He taps the puck back toward Russo and the play continues like nothing happened.
Okay.
That’s new.
The shift ends a minute later and we glide back to the bench.
I catch Shaw’s eye briefly.
“Nice recovery,” I say.
He shrugs inside the helmet.
“Lucky bounce.”
The game picks up speed after that.
Both teams skate hard, but tonight we’re keeping up. Russo controls the pace through the neutral zone, Chen locks the net down behind us, and for once the whole team seems to be moving in the same direction.
Midway through the second period the puck swings into the corner again.
Shaw gets there first.
This time one of their forwards barrels in after him, clearly planning to crush him into the boards.
But Shaw doesn’t wait.
Just before the guy reaches him, Shaw steps into the hit instead of away from it.
He angles his shoulder and the other player stumbles. Not dramatically, but just enough that his balance shifts the wrong way. Suddenly the bigger guy is the one sliding awkwardly into the boards while Shaw skates away with the puck.
Did he just-
Russo laughs out loud beside me.
“That was clever.”
I can’t help it. A grin creeps across my face as I chase the play down the ice.
By the third period the entire game feels different.
We’re still getting hit. Still fighting for every inch.
But now Shaw is fighting back.
Not with brute force - he’d lose that battle every time - but with timing. Little shifts of weight and clever angles that keep defenders off balance.
Twice he slips free along the boards when someone tries to pin him.
And then there’s the moment that makes the whole bench erupt.
Late in the third, one of their defencemen tries to step into Russo at the blue line.
Shaw cuts across the lane first. He closes the gap in two quick strides. At the last second he drops his hips and drives his shoulder into the defender’s chest, his stick sweeping low to clip the outside of the man’s skate.
The defenceman loses his balance instantly and stumbles sideways.
Not flattened - just completely thrown off.
Russo skates right past him with the puck.
The play keeps moving.
But the bench loses it.
“Okay!” Mercer shouts. “Rookie’s got teeth!”
I shake my head, half laughing as I follow the rush down the ice.
Where the hell did that come from?
The final buzzer sounds two minutes later.
Then the scoreboard flashes the number we’ve been chasing all season.
3–2.
Win.
The arena explodes.
It’s not the roar you hear in big professional arenas, but it’s loud enough to echo off the rafters. Fans are on their feet as we skate toward Chen at the crease.
Russo throws an arm around my shoulders.
“Finally.”
“About time,” I mutter.
Players drift toward the bench in a loose wave of exhausted relief.
Shaw skates in last.
I fall into step beside him.
“You’ve been holding out on us,” I say.
He glances over. “What?”
“That little move along the boards.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” I repeat. “You nearly sent that guy into the parking lot.”
He shrugs again, annoyingly calm. “Physics.”
I laugh. “That’s not an explanation.”
“Sure it is.”
We glide toward the tunnel together with the rest of the team.
Then I nudge his shoulder lightly with mine.
“Not bad for a mystery guy who barely talks.”
He tilts his helmet slightly toward me.
“Not bad for someone who thinks I need a babysitter.”
Touché.
I grin. “You still might.”
“Keep dreaming.”
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly behind the helmet cage.
It finally feels less like skating beside a stranger and more like skating beside a teammate.
LEONORA
The tunnel is louder than usual after the game - buzzing in that slightly stunned way teams get after something unexpected happens.
Our first win.
I peel off toward the side corridor before the rest of the team reaches the locker room, slipping down the quieter hallway that leads to Tara’s little treatment room.
The routine is automatic now - helmet and gear off, skullcap tucked into my bag, hair shaken loose.
Then I get changed into my normal clothes before anyone can see.
As I pull my jersey off, the mirror above the sink catches the bruises blooming across my ribs and shoulder.
I grin at myself.
Worth it.
Twenty minutes later I’m back outside the arena entrance, the night air biting pleasantly against my still-warm skin. The crowd is thinning now, people drifting toward the parking lot in loose clusters, still talking about the game.
I’m halfway across the pavement when a familiar voice shrieks my name.
“Leonora!”
I turn just in time for Willow to launch herself at me.
She throws her arms around my shoulders so enthusiastically I stagger backward a step.
“Holy shit!” she yells.
Katie arrives a second later, laughing.
“You won, Leonora!”
I can’t help smiling. “We did.”
“We were so worried after yesterday,” Willow says. “That game looked brutal. I thought you were going to get flattened at least five times.”
“That’s very encouraging.”
“I’m serious! That one guy practically tried to fold you in half. But tonight-” she gestures wildly back toward the arena. “Tonight you were incredible!”
“I set up a couple plays.”
“You body-checked a guy twice your size!”
“Technically,” I say, “he just lost his balance.”
Katie squints suspiciously. “You did something sneaky.”
We start walking toward the parking lot together, the cool night air settling around us.
“So,” Willow says casually, “celebratory drinks?”
I hesitate. Because that’s the thing about this entire situation. The team is probably celebrating right now. They’ll have music up loud in the locker room. Zane will probably be getting dragged into whatever ridiculous tradition they have for first wins.
And I can’t be there. Not without risking everything.
Suddenly I’m exhausted. “I actually think I just need to crash tonight,” I tell my friends.
“Well,” Willow announces suddenly, clapping her hands together, “good thing we already planned something better.”
She grins. “Spa day.”
“A spa day.”
“Yes.”
Katie nods solemnly beside her. “We booked massages for tomorrow.”
Willow points at me. “You’re bruised. We’re bruised emotionally from watching you nearly die on the ice. Everyone wins.”
“And before you argue,” Katie adds, “it’s already paid for. Don’t say we’re not supportive!”
Maybe I can’t celebrate the way the rest of the team will tonight.
But standing here with them under the bright parking lot lights, hearing Willow ramble excitedly about hot stones and face masks, I think this might actually be better.
Willow nudges me again. “Also,” she adds mischievously, “we have a lot to talk about.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes,” she says sweetly. “For example… that extremely hot hockey player who keeps passing you the puck.”
“Which one?” I ask innocently. But I know exactly who she means.
She gives me a look. “Leonora.”
Katie grins. “The loud one. With the dark brown hair.”
I sigh. “Zane Blake.”
Willow’s smile widens instantly.
“Exactly.”
ZANE
Half the team is crammed around two pushed-together tables near the back, someone banging a glass against the wood while Mercer tries to start a chant that isn’t catching on. The music is terrible, the floor is sticky, and the whole place smells like fryer oil and cheap lager.
Normally I’d be right in the middle of it but tonight I keep noticing something missing.
Russo raises his bottle toward Chen across the table. “To finally remembering how to win.”
“Hear, hear,” Mercer mutters.
Bottles clink.
Someone whoops.
But my eyes drift automatically toward the door again.
Still no Lee.
I take another drink and sit back in the chair.
It’s weird.
The guy’s only been here about a week but celebrating tonight’s win feels like it should include him. Half those plays started on his stick. Hell, he practically tilted the whole game our way.
Mercer notices me looking toward the door.
“Waiting for our mystery man?” he asks.
“Just wondering,” I say.
Mercer snorts. “Guy’s allergic to teammates.”
A few of the others laugh.
“Seriously though,” Barrett says, “what’s his deal?”
“Medical privacy,” Mercer says in a mock-serious voice.
“Yeah, but what kind of medical condition means you can’t even sit in the same room as the rest of us?”
Chen shrugs from across the table. “Maybe he’s just shy.”
Mercer rolls his eyes. “Shy doesn’t mean disappearing the second hockey ends.”
Another guy leans back in his chair. “Maybe he’s got a contagious disease. But only when it comes to actually talking to us.”
More laughter. I don’t join in.
But honestly? It’s really bothering me too.
Not the face that he’s quiet - I’ve played with quiet guys before. Hockey attracts plenty of weird personalities. But Lee isn’t just quiet.
He’s completely separate.
No locker room. No hanging around before or after practice. No post-game drinks. Nothing.
“What kind of team player acts like he does?” Mercer mutters.
Russo finally speaks up. The room quiets a little to hear what the captain has to say about it.
“The kind who just helped us win our first game,” he says calmly.
Mercer shrugs. “Yeah, alright.”
Another round of drinks arrives.
The mood loosens again and someone starts arguing about the best play of the game.
That’s the thing about winning - it forgives a lot. Even weird teammates.
I take another sip of my beer and glance toward the door one more time.
Still empty.
What the hell’s your problem, Shaw?
Because if you’re going to play like that - you might as well stick around long enough to celebrate it.