Chapter 26
LEONORA
The bandage looks worse than it feels.
That’s Tara’s doing.
She insisted on layering enough gauze over the cut that it now sits like a small white shield just beneath my collarbone. When I move my shoulder the tape pulls slightly against my skin, but the pain is manageable. It’s more tight than stabbing.
“Don’t get clever,” Tara says.
She’s standing in the small physio room beside the locker area, arms folded while she inspects the dressing one more time.
“I’m not getting clever.”
She presses lightly around the bandage and I try not to react.
“If that opens, you’re done.”
I nod. “No argument.”
“Good.”
She straightens and tosses the roll of tape back into the medical kit.
“Honestly, I’d prefer you not take another hit at all today.”
“Not really how hockey works.”
“No,” she says dryly. “It isn’t.”
I pull my jersey down over the padding and rotate my shoulder once. The bandage holds.
Tara watches the movement carefully.
“Comfortable?”
“Good enough.”
There’s noise drifting through the wall now - skates scraping concrete. Game day chaos.
Tara exhales slowly.
“Alright,” she says. “Let’s go over one more thing.”
We step out into the hallway where the team is gathering near the tunnel.
Zane is there already, stick in hand, talking quietly with Russo. Mercer leans against the boards, half dressed in gear.
Tara claps once to get their attention.
“Quick announcement,” she says.
Several heads turn.
“Shaw took a cut yesterday as you all saw. He’s fine to play. But I’d appreciate it if you lot tried not to drive opponents directly into his upper chest today.”
Chen nods thoughtfully. “Protect the clavicle.”
“Exactly,” Tara says.
Russo grins. “So basically, we just murder anyone who gets near Shaw.”
Mercer cracks his knuckles. “I can work with that.”
I glance sideways at Zane. He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes flick briefly toward the bandage beneath my jersey collar.
Then Russo taps his stick once against the floor. “Alright,” he says to the group. “Let’s go win a hockey game.”
The noise of the arena swells as the doors open toward the ice.
ZANE
Northern State isn’t the Wolves.
That much is obvious from the first few shifts.
They’re good - every team here is - but they don’t play with the same edge. Fewer cheap hits. Less chaos along the boards. They’re seeded third - one above us.
Still dangerous.
Just… cleaner.
Which is exactly what we need right now.
I push off from the boards as Russo wins the faceoff and the puck slides back toward our zone. My legs feel loose, energy buzzing under my skin in that familiar way that means the game is about to click.
The objective today is simple.
Win.
Impress the scouts.
And keep Shaw from getting smashed into the boards.
I glance across the ice.
Shaw - Leonora.
The correction still happens automatically in my head.
For weeks he was just Shaw. My winger. The smartest player on the ice most nights.
Now every time I look at him there’s this second of recalibration.
Her.
The word still feels strange attached to the same player.
She cuts through the neutral zone now, stick low, shoulders relaxed, slipping past a Northern State defender like he barely exists.
And suddenly I understand something I hadn’t before.
Part of the reason I never figured it out. And why the idea never even crossed my mind.
I never considered that a girl could play like that.
Could step onto our line and just… belong.
Fit into the sequence of our team like she’d been there all along.
The realization sits in my chest like a weight.
Because the truth is ugly. It just never occurred to me.
I shake my head slightly as I skate.
That’s on me.
And honestly?
I’m a little ashamed of it.
The puck slides across the blue line and Shaw taps it neatly off the boards toward me.
Perfect pass.
Nothing about the way she plays has changed.
Only what I know.
Which means my job stays the same.
Play the game.
Protect the line.
And stop overthinking.
Northern State pushes harder in the second period.
Their forwards are quick through the neutral zone and Chen has to make two big saves in the first few minutes.
Mercer levels one of their wingers near the boards and the crowd roars approval.
“Welcome to Showcase,” he mutters.
I float beside Shaw we skate back toward center.
“You good?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Play the game, Blake.”
I grin despite myself.
“Bossy.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes ahead toward the faceoff circle.
And just like that we’re back in motion again.
The scout sits somewhere up in the stands.
The tournament is still wide open.
And for the first time all morning, the weird tension in my chest eases.
Because whatever else is going on whatever secrets we still have to untangle - on the ice we’re still the same line we’ve been for weeks.
And we’re finally playing the kind of hockey that might actually carry us into Sunday’s final.
LEONORA
We win the first game of the day easily enough.
Too easily, almost. The kind of game where everything goes our way and the score stretches out early.
But Showcase weekends don’t leave much room to breathe.
By the time the second game rolls around my body has already started to feel it.
The cut beneath my collarbone throbs in a slow, steady rhythm under the bandage. It’s a dull pulse that reminds me every time I turn my shoulder that something under the tape is still healing.
Between games Tara pulls me into the physio medical room again.
She peels the edge of the tape back just enough to inspect it.
The gauze is darker than it was this morning.
“It’s seeping,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t be playing another full game.”
I pull my jersey back down before she can say anything else.
“It’s fine.”
She gives me a look that clearly says she does not believe that.
“Leonora…”
“It’s holding.”
Barely. But holding.
She exhales slowly.
“Be as careful as you possibly can.”
“That’s not something I can control.”
“You can try.”
Then the whistle blows somewhere out in the arena and the noise swells again.
Game three.
No time to rest.
No time to think.
Just back onto the ice.
This game feels immediately harder.
Not in the dramatic way yesterday’s Wolves game did - no dirty hits or chaos along the boards - but in the slow grinding way games sometimes become when two tired teams refuse to give anything away.
The puck moves up and down the ice.
Opportunities appear and disappear before they can become anything real.
Every shift takes a little more effort than the last.
Fatigue creeps in slowly, settling into my legs and shoulders. The cut throbs harder when I turn too quickly.
But I keep playing. Partly because Tara hasn’t pulled me yet. Mostly because I know something else. My lie isn’t going to hold forever. Every shift here feels like borrowed time.
And if this is the last weekend I ever get to play like this - I’m not wasting it sitting on the bench.
Not now. Not when Zane is skating beside me.
There’s a strange tension between us now.
Not awkward exactly.
Just… charged.
He still hasn’t fully worked out what to do with the truth about me. I can see it sometimes in the way he looks at me between plays, like he’s trying to fit two versions of the same person together in his head.
Admiration and confusion tangled together.
But whatever he’s feeling, he’s pushing it aside on the ice.
He’s playing the best hockey I’ve seen from him yet.
He’s on point in a way that makes it clear he knows exactly who’s watching.
Once during a stoppage I follow his gaze toward the stands.
It doesn’t take long to find them.
A small cluster of men in dark jackets near the middle rows. Not cheering or even reacting much. Just watching, notebooks in their hands.
Scouts.
I look away before they can notice me staring.
The game keeps grinding forward.
One period.
Then another.
Still no goals.
The arena gets quieter as the tension builds, every missed shot pulling a frustrated groan from the crowd.
By the time the final minutes tick down, even the benches have stopped shouting.
Everyone is just waiting for something to break.
But nothing does.
The buzzer sounds.
0–0.
Players coast slowly toward the benches while the referees gather near center ice.
The announcement comes a moment later.
Shootout.
I rest my hands on my stick and draw in a slow breath.
Three games in two days.
One more moment to decide how this one ends.
ZANE
We gather at the bench while the referees clear the ice.
The arena hums with that weird quiet that happens right before a shootout - half excitement, half nerves. Everyone leaning forward in their seats, waiting.
Coach Calloway steps in front of us.
“Alright,” he says quickly. “Same as always. Take your shot. Don’t overthink it. Chen has got the rest.”
A few sticks tap the boards.
He points down the line.
“Russo first. Blake second.”
I nod.
Then the whistle blows and suddenly the whole thing starts moving fast.
Russo skates out first. The arena falls almost completely silent except for the scrape of his blades.
He tries to deke left.
Saved.
But then Chen saves their first shot.
“Your turn,” Mercer mutters beside me.
I push off the boards.
The ice feels strangely long when you’re skating alone toward a goalie with scouts in the stands.
I pick up the puck at center and skate in steady, keeping my pace slow enough to read the goalie.
He bites slightly when I shift the puck to my backhand.
That’s all I need.
Quick pull across the crease. Forehand. The puck snaps into the net.
The crowd explodes.
I barely hear it as I skate past the goal and circle back toward the bench.
Mercer bangs my helmet as I pass.
“Atta boy.”
Soon it’s Shaw’s turn. Leonora.
She skates out without hesitation, helmet low. But I know something the rest of the arena doesn’t.
This might be her first shootout in front of a real crowd.
She picks up the puck at center ice and starts forward. It looks good…
Then the goalie reads the move early and drops his pad.
Save.
The crowd groans.
Shaw doesn’t react. Just circles away and glides back toward the bench like nothing happened.
She steps back beside me.
“First big shootout?”
She glances over.
“Maybe.”
I shrug. “I missed my first ever penalty shot.”
That earns the smallest smile.
The shootout continues.
Another save.
Another miss.
Back and forth.
Suddenly the scoreboard shows what we all know.
Sudden death.
The next goal wins.
Calloway scans the bench then he points down the line.
“Chen.”
The entire bench freezes.
Our goalie looks up.
“You serious?”
“Go.”
Chen skates out slowly, like he’s heading to a casual warm-up drill instead of deciding the game.
The arena buzzes with confused excitement.
The goalie at the other end clearly has no idea what to expect either.
Chen picks up the puck at center ice.
He skates in almost lazily.
Then, at the last second, he flicks a quick wrist shot high glove side.
The puck snaps into the net.
Our bench erupts.
Russo tackles Chen near the crease while the rest of us pile in.
“Goalie goal!” Mercer is screaming.
I’m laughing, half buried under three teammates as the noise rolls through the arena.
Showcase weekend. And somehow our goalie just won the shootout.
As we finally break apart and skate back toward the bench, the realization hits.
We’re through.
Final on Sunday.
And if tonight felt big, tomorrow is going to be something else entirely.