6. Hot Water
Chapter six
Hot Water
Emma
T he hot water hits my hip and I hiss through my teeth after the grueling forty minute bus ride back.
Not broken. Not even badly bruised. Yet .
Just that deep, muscular ache that comes from taking a hit on a joint you’ve been overloading for weeks.
Mostly because your coach keeps telling you to fix your stance and you keep not doing it because fixing your stance would mean one less excuse for him to put his hands on you.
Great priorities, Cole. Really stellar decision-making.
The locker room’s empty. Everyone else cleared out fifteen minutes ago. Sloane headed to the house, Becca to wherever captains go to quietly process a loss, Jordan to call her parents the way she does after every game, win or lose.
I stayed.
Not for Luke. For once, this isn’t about Luke.
I stayed because the hot water is the only thing keeping me from replaying the third period on a loop.
The turnover that led to their second goal.
Mine . The defensive breakdown that led to their third.
Also mine . I was a half-step slow getting back because my hip was screaming and I was too stubborn to admit it.
We lost because of me .
Not just because of the hip. Because of the version of me that’s been showing up to this team.
The Emma who’s more focused on making her coach sweat than on making this roster work.
The one who catalogues jaw clenches and curates selfies instead of watching film of the Pine Ridge transfers and figuring out how to build a breakout that works for everyone.
I think about BC. About the version of me that played there.
That Emma scored goals. Led the stats. Made highlight reels.
That Emma also felt nothing.
I’d stand at center ice after a win with a hat trick, a standing ovation, the whole thing, and feel like I was watching someone else’s life through glass.
Drew would throw his arm around me after games and I’d smile for the photos and go home and lie in the dark wondering why winning felt so empty when it was supposed to be the point.
Mom once said that hockey was the thing that saved us.
After Dad left, after we moved to Connecticut with nothing, it was Grayson’s decision to play that gave us a community.
A family beyond our family. I started playing because he played, but I kept playing because the ice was the one place where nobody looked at me with pity.
Somewhere along the way, hockey stopped being the thing I loved and became the thing I used. To prove I was enough. To earn attention. To matter.
And I’m doing it again. Using hockey. Using this team, this season, this proximity to Luke as a vehicle for wanting to be seen. Instead of just playing.
The water’s going cold. I shut it off, wrap a towel around myself, and sit on the bench in the empty locker room, dripping and honest in a way I rarely let myself be.
My phone’s in my bag. I pull it out, expecting Sloane’s usual post-game barrage.
Instead, there’s a name I haven’t seen in weeks.
Drew.
Drew
Heard you lost today. Guess the new program's struggling as much as I figured. Miss you on the ice, Em. BC's not the same.
Then, a second message that reminds me who Drew really is beneath his exterior charm.
Drew
Your coach see that tattoo yet?
The tattoo. The one on my hip. Chinese characters for strength and determination with XIX underneath.
Luke’s college number . Inked into my skin senior year of high school when he played his first game back after the injury.
The tattoo Drew saw. The tattoo Drew eventually decoded.
Realized that the Roman numerals matched the number of his girlfriend’s brother’s best friend.
That the girl in his bed had another man’s number permanently etched on her body.
Was probably thinking of said other man while sleeping with him.
It’s what ended us.
Not the only thing. Drew was possessive and jealous and had a habit of making everything about himself. But the tattoo was the detonation point. The proof that whatever I was offering him, I’d already given the important parts to someone else.
I delete the texts without responding.
But my hands are shaking, and it’s not from the cold.
Because we play BC after Thanksgiving. And Drew will probably be there. Might even still be dating Liz based on recent social media photos. And if he decides to make a scene? If he says something to Luke, to Grayson, to anyone…?
I press my palms against my eyes and breathe.
One thing at a time, Cole. Fix the team first. Fix yourself first. Drew can wait.
My phone goes off again. My hands shake again, until I see the name.
Luke
Ice your hip tonight. That's not a suggestion.
Professional. Appropriate. Coach to player.
But I know him. Know that text was drafted and redrafted six times. Know he’s sitting in his dark office right now, replaying my hit the same way I’m replaying the turnover.
Know that “ice your hip” is the closest he’ll let himself get to saying I was scared when you went down.
Already on it. And Luke? The loss wasn't on the system. It was on me. I played like shit.
Luke
You played hurt. There's a difference. We'll fix the rest on Sunday.
We. Not you. Not the team.
We.
I stare at that word until the screen dims.
Then I get dressed, drive home, and find Sloane waiting on the couch with two mugs of hot chocolate.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says, handing me a mug.
“Good.”
“But if you wanted to—”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.” She pulls her feet up, making room for me. “Want to watch game film and figure out how to fix the breakout instead?”
I look at her, at this eighteen-year-old who’s known me for three months and somehow understands exactly what I need right now.
Purpose .
“Yeah,” I respond, settling in beside her. “Let’s fix it.”
We watch film until midnight. Sloane falls asleep with her laptop on her chest. I cover her with a blanket and go upstairs. Lie in the dark, hip aching, my mind finally quiet.
Tomorrow I’ll ice. Sunday I’ll show up ready to beat Ashford. After Thanksgiving I’ll face Drew, face my former teammates who were never really friends.
But tonight, I just need to remember why I play.
Not for Luke. Not for scouts. Not to prove anything to anyone.
For the sound of a puck hitting the back of the net. For the girl downstairs who chose this team over anywhere else in the country. For the six-year-old version of me who followed her brother onto the ice and found a reason not to be scared anymore.
That’s enough.
For now, that’s enough.