Chapter 13
LEONORA
The spa smells of eucalyptus and something expensive I can’t pronounce.
I’ve traded my hockey gear for a soft white robe; my hair twisted loosely into a towel while Willow and Katie sprawl on the loungers beside me like they were born for this kind of environment.
I look like someone who has been repeatedly thrown into a wall. Which becomes obvious very soon after we sit down.
Willow is halfway through describing the benefits of hot stone therapy when her eyes land on my ribs.
She gasps. “Leonora.”
I glance down. A dark bruise stretches across my side, blooming purple and yellow under the soft lighting.
Katie leans forward immediately. “Oh my god.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” I say quickly.
“That looks like you were hit by a car,” Willow replies.
“Not quite - just a defenceman. A large one.”
“That’s not better!”
Katie gently touches the edge of the bruise with one finger, careful not to press.
“You didn’t tell us it was like this.”
Willow stares at me. “Leonora Shaw, are you absolutely sure this is worth it?”
The question lingers in the air.
I think about the game last night. About the moment the puck slid perfectly onto Zane’s stick. And about the roar of the crowd when the buzzer sounded and the scoreboard finally showed a win for the Giants.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’m sure.”
Katie nods. “Okay.”
Willow sighs dramatically.
“Well, if you change your mind, I can get you competition-ready for a figure skating tournament in about three weeks.”
“You couldn’t,” I laugh.
“I absolutely could,” she insists. “With the added bonus of elegant costumes and a shitload of sparkles. And I guarantee you won’t come out of it looking like you wrestled a refrigerator.”
“These are just temporary.”
“Your bones hope so.”
Willow waves a hand. “Anyway. More important topic.”
I groan. “Oh no.”
“Yes,” she says cheerfully. “Zane.”
“I knew this was coming.”
“You two had chemistry.”
“It’s called hockey.”
“You had chemistry while doing hockey.”
Katie nods thoughtfully. “He definitely notices you. He was looking at you a LOT. Even when he didn’t need to be.”
“He notices Lee.”
Willow smirks. “Same person.”
“Not to him.”
“That’s a minor technicality.”
I shake my head. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Oh please,” Willow says. “That look he gives you when you’re skating together-”
“That’s called passing.”
“It’s called smoldering intensity.”
“It is not.”
“For what it’s worth,” Katie says, “I think Willow is completely right.”
I stare at them. “Why are you guys like this?”
Willow leans forward conspiratorially. “Do you actually like him?”
Zane Blake is loud and confident. He also skates like the ice was invented specifically for him.
And when he laughs-
“Leonora.”
I sigh. “Yes,” I admit. “A little.”
Willow gasps like I’ve just confessed to a crime. “I knew it!”
“But,” I add quickly, “he has absolutely no idea who I really am.”
“Details.”
“Major details.”
“Minor details. He clearly likes Lee.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“This is a terrible situation.”
“Romantically intriguing,” Willow says.
“Terrible.”
“Both.”
Katie glances at her phone.
“Oh,” she says suddenly. “Speaking of terrible decisions.”
Willow looks up. “What?”
“Halloween.”
Willow whoops. “Yes! The campus Halloween party!”
Katie nods. “It’s in a few weeks.”
Willow points dramatically at me.
“You need a costume.”
“I will be busy playing hockey.”
“You can do both.” Katie smiles. “But start thinking about it now.”
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
Bruised ribs.
Secret hockey identity.
A potential crush who thinks I’m someone else.
And now an urgent Halloween costume.
My life has officially become ridiculous.
ZANE
The first win changes something.
The record is still ugly, the standings still stubbornly unforgiving, and nobody is suddenly pretending we’re the unstoppable Blackwood Giants from five years ago. But the locker room feels different the following week.
Winning once is like cracking a window in a room that’s been sealed too long.
Practice gets louder. Someone drags a speaker into the corner and insists on blasting music during warm-ups, which Calloway pretends not to notice as long as the drills stay sharp.
Most importantly, we start believing the next game might actually go our way.
Shaw helps with that.
Not dramatically at first. He doesn’t arrive with some legendary performance that flips the whole season on its head. If anything, the most impressive thing about him is how quietly he improves.
The first few games after the Eagles match are messy.
Our passing still falls apart under pressure. Our defense occasionally forgets that the other team is allowed to attack the net. Chen continues to bail us out with saves that should never have been necessary in the first place, but, as amazing as he is, even he can’t save them all.
But what I’m starting to like most about how Shaw plays is how he adapts. If something isn’t working, he tries something else.
The first game after the win he gets knocked down three times in the first period alone.
By the second period he’s already adjusting his angles again.
The next night he barely goes down at all.
It’s subtle enough that you only notice it if you’re watching closely.
Which I am.
The next game is away. Shaw travels with Tara, the physio, again on account of the medical exceptions which apparently would make it too difficult to travel with his team.
Still, I forget about that when I step onto the ice.
It’s a small rink but a loud crowd. It’s the kind of arena where the boards feel closer than usual and the glass rattles whenever someone gets checked. Those places are never easy to play in, especially when your season has been teetering on the edge of disaster for weeks.
But Shaw plays like the noise doesn’t exist.
Midway through the first period, he picks up the puck along the boards and two defenders close in immediately. A week ago, that situation would have ended with him flattened into the glass.
Instead, he pivots sharply and slips between them.
Not super-fast. Just… precise.
The puck lands on my stick a second later and we nearly score.
Mercer skates past Shaw afterward and bumps his shoulder.
“Okay, rookie,” he mutters.
It’s the closest thing to approval Mercer has offered yet.
By the third game of our new winning streak, the rest of the team has stopped pretending Shaw is temporary.
Grant is still injured, still expected back in a few weeks. Shaw is still the replacement. But that’s not how people treat him anymore.
Russo starts including him in the quick strategy conversations during line changes. Coach yells instructions at him across the ice the same way he does with the rest of us. Even Mercer, despite his constant needling, begins passing him the puck without hesitation.
The locker room remains… complicated.
Shaw still doesn’t change with the rest of us. He still disappears immediately after practice. And he still skips every team dinner or drinks session, every pointless hour spent sitting around complaining about referees and other teams.
Mercer complains about it constantly.
“Guy acts like we’re contagious,” he says one afternoon while re-taping his stick.
Russo shrugs.
“He’s playing well.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
Mercer snorts but doesn’t argue.
And he’s not just playing well - he’s improving. I even see improvement within a single game at times.
It’s like watching someone solve puzzles in real time.
Russo notices it too.
“He’s good at adjustments,” he says quietly during a break in play.
“No kidding.”
“It’s rare.”
He’s right.
Most players come into games with a plan and stubbornly stick to it even when it stops working.
Shaw watches and learns. He’s not scared to try something different.
Changes.
Every shift looks slightly better than the last.
My awareness of him becomes… annoying.
At first, it’s just professional. He’s on my line. If we’re going to win games, I need to know where he’ll be on the ice. When he’ll pass. When he’ll cut inside.
But somewhere along the way that focus starts drifting outside the game itself.
I notice things.
How he never celebrates goals for more than a second before skating back toward the center line.
Little habits and rhythms. Like tapping his stick twice before every faceoff.
During one practice Russo slides the puck to Shaw along the boards.
I’m already moving before Shaw even looks up.
The pass lands perfectly on my stick.
Goal.
Russo laughs.
“You two are starting to read each other.”
“Yeah,” I say.
But my attention is already drifting back toward Shaw.
He nods once, quiet as always, and skates back toward the line.
The wins keep coming. Nothing spectacular. Just hard-fought games where the Giants finally stop looking like a team waiting to lose.
The campus starts noticing.
Students show up wearing old Blackwood jerseys again.
The crowd grows louder each night.
And yet, the more time passes, the stranger Shaw’s absence off the ice becomes.
One afternoon after a particularly brutal practice, Mercer corners me near the lockers.
“This thing with Shaw isn’t fucking normal.”
“He’s got medical privacy.”
Mercer snorts. “Yeah, sure. The guy disappears faster than a magician.”
If I’m honest, I’ve been getting more irritated about it, too. What kind of medical condition requires this much distance from the rest of the team?
It’s not that Shaw seems unfriendly.
When he does speak, he’s calm. Occasionally sarcastic. But he keeps everyone at arm’s length.
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” Mercer says. “But nobody avoids the locker room that much unless something’s going on.”
I shrug. “Maybe he just secretly hates us.”
Mercer considers that. “…fair.”
But the weird thing is - I start looking for him anyway.
On the ice he’s always exactly where he needs to be.
It’s everywhere else. After practice. Passing the arena parking lot.
Which makes absolutely no sense.
I barely know the guy.
We’ve had maybe ten actual conversations.
Most of them about hockey.
The realization hits me one night after another win.
The team is heading out again, half the guys already arguing about which bar to hit first.
Russo walks beside me toward the parking lot.
“You coming?”
“In a minute.”
He nods and keeps walking.
I stand there, looking around the arena entrance.
Students milling around.
Cars pulling out.
And suddenly I realize…
I wasn’t just glancing around. I was expecting him to be there.
Which is ridiculous.
Because Shaw never stays.
He never has.
Still, I linger there for another moment, scanning the shadows near the arena doors.
Then I shake my head and head toward the bar.
But the thought follows me the whole way.
What the hell is wrong with me?