Chapter 21
LEONORA
The arena is overwhelming.
I arrive early - earlier than anyone - slipping through a staff entrance Tara arranged. The corridors are quiet, just the hum of machinery and distant sounds of preparation.
The locker room they’ve assigned us is small. Shared with another team on opposite days.
I find the physio room tucked away near the back of the building.
Perfect.
I change quickly.
Lee Shaw steps onto the ice.
ZANE
From the moment I step through the tunnel, something feels different.
The boards here have more spring. The lights are brighter.
And Shaw is already here.
He’s skating slow circles in the neutral zone, alone, like he’s been here for hours.
I watch him for a moment.
Then I skate over. We skate together for a few minutes, not talking, just moving.
Then I say, “This is it.”
“Yep.”
“You ready?”
“Yeah. I think I am.”
We’re seeded fourth.
Which means our opening game is against the top seed.
The Wolves.
Fantastic.
Everyone in the league knows the Wolves. They’re good - fast and disciplined - but they’ve also built a reputation for playing right up to the edge of the rule-book.
And occasionally a few inches past it.
Coach calls it “competitive enthusiasm.” Everyone else calls it dirty.
I stop near the blue line, tapping my stick lightly against the ice while the rest of the team finishes warm-ups.
Three games in the round robin - one this evening and two more tomorrow.
Then the top two teams play the final on Sunday.
It’s almost like an exhibition tournament. Everyone playing everyone, scouts watching every shift and comparing notes in the stands.
But the final - that’s the one everyone wants.
That’s where the attention really lands.
Across the rink the Wolves are already skating through their drills. They’re a big team. Physical.
I watch one of their defencemen throw a heavy check into the boards during a drill and feel a small knot form in my stomach for Shaw.
He’s good at avoiding contact - he’s quick and smart with the puck - but the Wolves have a way of turning games into something rougher than they need to be.
And Shaw’s not exactly built like Mercer or Barrett. He’s not built like any of us, really.
But he doesn’t seem to be showing any nerves.
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing.
Still.
I tap my stick against the ice again and push off toward the faceoff circle.
First seed or not - if we want to make that final on Sunday, we’re going to have to win some games.
LEONORA
The Wolves are the dirtiest team I’ve ever played against.
I know that ten seconds into my first shift.
Their right wing - a massive guy with dead eyes and a missing tooth - lines me up along the boards before I even touch the puck. His shoulder drives into my ribs so hard I feel it in my teeth.
No whistle.
I push myself up and chase the play, already knowing this game is going to be different.
The first period is a war.
Every time the puck comes near me, someone’s there. Not to play the puck - to play me. Shoulders into my chest. Sticks between my skates. Gloves in my face after the whistle.
The refs aren’t calling it.
Or maybe they just aren’t seeing it. The Wolves are good at making it look like hockey. Just hard, physical play. Nothing flagrant or obvious.
Except I’m the one getting hit.
Every. Single. Shift.
Midway through the period, I pick up the puck along the boards in the neutral zone. I see the opening - a lane to Russo breaking through the center.
Before I can pass, their defenceman is there.
He doesn’t go for the puck.
He goes for me.
His shoulder catches me square in the chest and I’m airborne for half a second before the ice comes up to meet me. My helmet cracks against the surface. The puck skitters away.
I lie there staring at the rafters, trying to remember how to breathe.
The ref’s hand stays down.
I get up.
From across the ice, I hear Zane yell something at the ref. The ref ignores him.
The Wolves’ center skates past me after one particularly ugly hit near their bench. He leans close.
“Keep getting up, little man.”
I don’t respond.
But I feel it - the weight of every hit, every cheap shot, every moment they’ve spent trying to break me. My ribs are on fire.
And there’s still a whole period left.
Between periods, I go back to my little physio room.
Tara comes to see me.
“How bad?”
“I’m fine.”
“Leo.”
“I’m fine.”
“They’re targeting you. Maybe you should stay off the rest of the game.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Then you need to adjust. You can’t keep letting them hit you like that.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Tara squeezes my shoulder gently.
“You can survive this. You can win.”
I nod.
She heads back to the main locker room to check on the others.
I sit there, breathing, trying to find the calm I need.
ZANE
Between periods, I find Russo by the water cooler.
“They’re headhunting Shaw.”
Russo nods. “I see it.”
“The refs aren’t calling shit.” I shake my head, frustration burning in my chest. “He’s on our line. I need him out there - not in pieces.”
Russo nods. Doesn’t push.
But I catch the look on his face.
LEONORA
The third period starts the same way the first two ended.
Hit. Recover. Hit again.
But something’s different now.
I’m watching them differently. Chen’s voice echoes in my head - you don’t fight strength with strength. You use timing.
The next time their defenceman winds up to hit me along the boards, I see it coming a split second before he moves. His eyes lock onto me instead of the puck.
I pivot.
He hits nothing but glass.
The puck stays on my stick.
I slide it to Zane.
He scores.
The bench erupts.
Something shifts after that.
Not the physicality - the Wolves keep hitting, keep trying to intimidate - but me. I’m not where they expect me to be anymore. I’m half a step faster, half a step smarter.
They’re getting frustrated.
I can see it in the way their defenceman slams his stick against the boards after missing me.
Then we get a power play.
Everything is going our way.
But just when I think we can win - that’s when it happens.
ZANE
The power play is beautiful.
Russo runs it from the half-wall, drawing defenders before sliding it to me at the point. I one-time it toward the net - screened perfectly by Shaw, who’s parked in front of their goalie like he weighs fifty pounds more than he really does.
The puck deflects in.
2-0.
The bench loses its mind. Even Chen pumps his fist from the crease.
I find Shaw near the boards as we change lines.
“That screen was disgusting.”
I can see his smile behind the helmet cage.
We’re winning.
We’re actually winning.
The Wolves are desperate now.
Three minutes left. They’re throwing everything at us - forechecking like maniacs, finishing every check, running anyone who touches the puck. The refs have lost control completely.
But we’re surviving.
Barely.
The puck goes into their zone with ninety seconds left. If we can keep it there, game over.
Russo carries it over the line. I follow, looking for the pass.
Then I see Shaw cutting toward the boards.
Their defenceman - the same one who’s been headhunting all game - is already moving toward him.
But Shaw sees it coming.
He pivots, just like he’s been doing all period, angling his body to let the hit glance off-
Except this time, the defenceman’s stick comes up.
It’s not a slash. It’s not even a penalty, really. Just a wild, desperate swing as the guy realizes he’s about to miss his hit completely.
The blade catches Shaw high - under the collarbone. The shoulder pads don’t protect that spot.
For a second, nothing happens.
Shaw keeps skating for half a stride.
Then he crumples.
The whistle blows.
I don’t remember skating over. I just… arrive.
Shaw is on the ice, lying on his side. He’s not moving the way someone moves when they’re hurt but okay. He’s just… down.
Then I see the blood.
It’s spreading fast - too fast - soaking into his jersey, dripping onto the ice. Red against white. Growing.
“TARA!”
Someone’s yelling. It might be me.
The trainers are already coming. Tara sprints across the ice.
I try to get closer.
Russo’s arm catches me across the chest.
“Let them work.”
“He needs-”
“I know. Let them work.”
I stand there. Frozen. Watching.
Tara drops beside Shaw. Her gloves are off, her hands pressing against his collarbone, against that spreading stain. She’s talking - I can see her mouth moving - but I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears.
Someone else is yelling at the Wolves bench.
I don’t care about any of it.
I’m watching Shaw.
He’s not moving.
They form a circle around him - trainers and staff. I can’t see him anymore. Just backs. And the bright red staining the ice beneath him.
My hands are shaking.
I look down at them. I clench them into fists and they still shake.
“Blake.”
Russo’s voice. I turn.
“He’s getting up.”
I look back.
Shaw is sitting up. Slowly and painfully. Tara’s hands are still on him, still pressing something against him, but he’s sitting up.
He’s ok. He’s alive.
They help him off the ice. Tara on one side, another trainer on the other. His skates barely touch the surface as they half-carry him toward the tunnel.
He doesn’t look back.
The arena is buzzing - confused and concerned - the game completely forgotten.
I start to follow.
Russo’s hand on my arm again.
“Game’s not over.”
“I don’t care.”
“Ninety seconds. Then you can go.”
I look at the clock.
Ninety seconds.
It might as well be a lifetime.
I don’t remember the rest of the game.
I know we won - someone tells me later, or maybe I hear the buzzer, or maybe I just see the scoreboard when I finally look up. 2–0. Shutout. Chen’s second of the season.
None of it matters.
The second the buzzer sounds, I’m off the ice with my skates and gloves still on. I don’t care.
The tunnel is empty. All I can hear is the echo of my blades against concrete.
I don’t know where they took him.
I don’t know anything.