23. Game Face
Chapter twenty-three
Game Face
Emma
T he third period starts and I stop thinking.
Not the hockey parts. Those stay on, running the reads, tracking defensive gaps, processing the ice. Instinct first, analysis second. Trust the preparation and let the game come to you.
But the other parts? The parts that spent yesterday afternoon in a hotel room mapping a future that requires leaving the man I’m hopelessly in love with? Those go blissfully, mercifully quiet.
I haven’t been thinking all game. That’s the secret. That’s what yesterday did.
Because here’s what I remember from the first two periods, the parts I’ll keep forever even when the details blur:
I remember the puck dropping and my body knowing what to do before my brain caught up. The first shift feeling like coming home. Not to a place, but to a version of myself that doesn’t overthink, doesn’t perform, just plays. The version of me I’ve found here, at Silver Pine.
It’s 3-1 and both Sloane and I have scored. Oakmont’s defense is tired. Sloane is relentless and I’m reading the ice like it’s written in a language only I speak.
The play Luke drew up last week when our ankles were hooked under the table, materializes like a photograph developing. Sloane drives wide, pulling their strong-side D. Jordan cycles low. I cut backdoor through the weak-side lane that doesn’t exist until the exact moment the puck arrives.
The pass is perfect. Five months of practice. Five months of learning to speak the same language on ice.
I one-time it.
The sound of a puck hitting the back of the net is the best sound in the world. Better than music, better than applause, better than Luke Anderson whispering my name in the dark (though that last one is a very close second).
4-1.
Sloane crashes into me. “WE’RE COOKING!” she screams, grabbing my helmet with both hands. “EMMA, WE ARE AGGRESSIVELY COOKING!”
The final six minutes feel like a victory lap. Their team knows it. We know it. The crowd knows it. Even the woman in the media section who I assume is Jennifer Walsh, knows it.
After the final buzzer, Sloane finds me in the chaos. Her eyes are wild, mascara-streaked (she insists on wearing mascara under her visor, which is insane, and I love her), and she grabs both my shoulders.
“Two goals, two assists,” she says. “Emma. Two and two. Against a ranked team. With Olympic scouts watching.”
“I know.”
“You know ? That’s your response? I KNOW?” She shakes me. “We just showed Jennifer Walsh that she’d be clinically insane not to invite us to camp! We just…oh my God, I’m going to cry. I never cry. What’s happening to my face?”
“Your face is doing emotions. It’s normal. Most people experience them.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it.” I pull her into the kind of hug you give someone who’s been on this ride with you and deserves every second of what’s coming. “You were incredible tonight, Sloane.”
“Obviously.” But her voice cracks on the word, and she holds on for an extra beat.
Over her shoulder, I see Luke.
He’s on the bench. Not celebrating. Not with us on the ice. Standing behind the boards with his clipboard at his side, watching the team with an expression that’s trying very hard to be professionally satisfied and is failing in every direction simultaneously .
He’s not looking at me.
He’s looking at all of us. At the thing he built in five months from nothing. No roster, no history, no reason for anyone to believe it would work. Twenty-three women who trusted him and a vision that turned out to be real.
A team he took to 24-3-3.
First in the conference.
His eyes find mine.
That’s my girl, they say.
That’s my coach, mine answer.
Then Grayson’s voice cuts through the noise like he’s got a speaker system installed in his ribcage.
“THAT’S MY SISTER!”
I turn to find him in the stands. Standing, because Grayson does not experience hockey emotions while seated.
Hands cupped around his mouth. Mom beside him in my jersey, the one she ordered the day I transferred and has worn to every game since our home opener.
She’s crying. The happy kind. The kind that means her daughter did something that made the years of early morning rink drives and secondhand equipment and pretending she wasn’t terrified feel worth it.
Sienna’s beside them, laughing. Probably at Grayson’s volume.
Behind them are Sky and Chase, who drove from Boston for this. Sky’s got a sign I can’t read from here but that probably says something mortifying and supportive in equal measure.
My people. All here.
I wave. Mom blows me a kiss that hits me somewhere behind the sternum.
“Come on,” Becca says, materializing at my elbow. “Handshake line. Then locker room. Let the scouts do their thing. Need to look like you’re not waiting for a call to the conference room.”
One more look at Luke before I go.
He’s talking to Calloway now. Both of them looking at section 201, where Walsh and her assistant are still writing. Luke’s posture is Coach Anderson, but his free hand, the one Calloway can’t see, is trembling.
And briefly I wonder if it’s because he knows he can’t reach for me.
Game face, Em. This isn’t the moment to think about how much you want to kiss your coach. You’ve got an interview to nail.