Chapter Two Skye
Chapter Two
Skye
There’s nothing more satisfying than the sound of a blade cutting deep.
The ice under my skates holds me steady as I shoot puck after puck toward the empty net in front of me. That’s my biggest downfall. Empty net shots.
It’s like being asked an open-ended question on the spot. “What do you do for work?” and the ability to form words goes right out the window.
Same with seeing an empty net. It’s right there, wide open, but the pressure of that shot is enough to make your head explode. Even the biggest names in the NHL miss open net shots. But I can’t think about that when the gold medal is on the line, and my name is tied to it.
With the Olympic Games right around the corner, I need to get as much practice as I can.
I’m not going into the biggest games of my life unprepared.
Not that I have much to work on, I’m one of the top players in women’s hockey.
But I also know that I’m not perfect, and with certain people breathing down my neck about not making any mistakes, on or off the ice, I’m determined to perfect every part of my game.
So, I’m here practicing the day before I leave for the Olympics. Compartmentalizing. Nothing but me and the net. Everything else is on the back burner.
The rink smells sharper today; ice shavings and steel. Cold enough to sting my lungs.
Underneath it, the thick scent of sweat and worn leather. It smells like work. Like everything it took to get me here.
I grip my stick harder, eyes forward, then draw it across the ice, catching the puck and firing it at the net.
Shot one.
Score.
Shoot again.
Score.
Again.
Miss.
Fuck.
Go again.
And again.
Usually, I’m blasting music from Harley Poe or Badflower, but today I need peace and quiet. Honestly, I should have the sound of a cheering crowd playing, so it feels a bit more realistic, but when it’s just me and the ice, I can do whatever I want.
Maybe that’s why I prefer to practice stuff like this on my own. It’s not like I’ll have anyone in my corner cheering me on.
Aside from my team, of course, but they only look at me as their team captain.
Score.
Score.
Miss.
Fuck.
“Skye,” a commanding voice echoes to my right, and I halt, shooting shaved ice into the air near the goal.
Coach Madsen.
A force to be reckoned with, even if she is a half foot shorter than me. Her idol is Danièle Sauvageau, the first woman inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame. She demands excellence from her team and nothing less.
That’s why Coach agreed with Paige, our top goalie and closest thing I have to a friend, when she suggested I become team captain.
“Yeah, Coach?” I lean on my stick, my breathing rapid from the lack of breaks I’ve given myself.
Coach Madsen makes her way onto the ice, avoiding the litter of pucks that fill the rink.
She commands the room without even trying.
That’s one of the things that was brought up in an interview when she was chosen to be the coach of the women’s Olympic hockey team.
The committee watched her for over a year, but we always knew she would be the chosen one.
Our team has been undefeated for two seasons in a row.
She commends Paige and myself for the victories, but we know who deserves the credit for the win streak.
I may be team captain, but she’s the one who makes the calls.
She put us in the lines we’re in, and she’s the one who feeds the team’s dynamic and overall good vibes.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” Her eyes scan the ice to determine how long I’ve been out here. Not a single dark hair out of place as she shakes her head. “We leave for Italy tomorrow.”
I sigh, feeling the butterflies consume my stomach at the thought of playing on an Olympic hockey team. Especially with everything and everyone I have working against me getting this far.
“I know, Coach.” I keep my responses short and sweet, as she prefers.
No need to add fluff when trying to get a point across. Just say what you mean and move on.
“Find someone to get this cleaned up and get your ass home,” she orders, pulling her phone from her pants pocket before tapping away at something that requires her attention.
I let my stick fall as I slowly skate toward the pucks to gather them up.
“You don’t have to keep practicing alone, you know.” Her tone the same one I’ve only ever heard her use with her eleven-year-old daughter, Maddy. “This is a team sport.”
She doesn’t say ‘goodbye’ or ‘see you in Milan’; she simply walks out of the rink, leaving me to my own thoughts.
I give her a half grin even though she can’t see it. I’m always grateful for her looking out for us in her own way. Tough love.
A few minutes later, I’m greeted by two teenage boys who must work at the arena and have the order to clean the rink. They skate around me like they’re afraid to breathe my air. I look at them and smile, but their eyes grow wide as though I caught them doing something they’re not supposed to.
“You boys all right?” I lift a brow in question as I watch them skate to a stop.
The taller of the two clears his throat and seems to stumble over his words as he tries to talk to me.
“We are.” He clears his throat again and fidgets with his fingers. “I mean, we were wondering…”
“Can we get you to sign one of these pucks?” the other one finishes.
I chuckle and nod. “I can if you have a marker. I only sign things in blood on Tuesdays.”
They both laugh, the tension visibly falling from their shoulders, and the taller boy pulls a silver Sharpie from his pocket. Smart kid keeping it on him for just-in-case purposes. You never know who will show up at this rink, considering the Bruins are frequent fliers here also.
I sign my usual Play fast. Play fearless. And scribble my name and #13 underneath before handing it back. The boys high-five and race off the ice with the signed trinket in hand, ignoring the rest of the pucks I used for practice.
Those little fuckers. They don’t work here. They probably weren’t even supposed to be here.
Totally something I would have done as a kid, too, which dissolves my irritation at the lack of help.
“Sorry about that,” Billy yells from the player gate. “That’s not the first time they’ve managed to pass as the ice crew.”
“You’d think there would be better security,” I say, only partially kidding.
He laughs and nods in agreement before saying, “I’ve called the boys to head down and help clear the pucks. You can go get yourself ready for the big trip.”
I adjust my gear and smile before grabbing my stick and heading toward the locker room.
It seems everyone knows that Paige and I are heading to the Olympics. We were the picks for the USA women’s team, and I’m grateful that our home team is more excited than jealous when they practice with us.
Paige’s goalie game is the most intense I’ve ever seen.
Not that the other Pro Women’s Hockey League teams don’t have great goalies, because they definitely do.
New York’s goalie was picked for our team, as well as Seattle’s.
We’re going to Italy with a solid group, and I can’t wait to get on Olympic ice with them.
We’ve already met with our teammates on multiple occasions to get a practice in and make sure we flow. So far, Rissa and Riley have fallen into a routine with Paige and me, but the rest will follow suit the more we work together.
Everything has gone better than expected when it comes to all these players. It’s pure perfection, honestly. The plays we’ve come up with and the overall team chemistry have made me proud to extend my captain status from our PWHL team over to the Olympic team.
And it seems the majority agree with the decision of the national team's general managers to make me captain.
No pressure at all, right?
Billy hands me covers for my skates when I leave the ice to head to the locker rooms, and he squeezes me on the shoulder for luck.
He’s never been much of a talker, but that works for me because…
well, same. The fewer words exchanged between another human and me, the better.
My Aunt Keisha tells me all the time that I would like humans more if they just didn’t talk.
I sit on the chair in front of my locker and start stripping away my gear like a hermit crab. My mind is racing through my upcoming schedule, and I fear I’m not going to sleep at all tonight.
T-minus eleven hours until the plane takes me from the safety of my condo in Boston, Massachusetts, and dumps me into the shark tank that waits for us in Milan, Italy.
It’s time to transition from Skye, the Boston hockey player, to Skye, the Olympian.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything. That’s what.
I’m packing my bags at home in my condo and realize my passport is missing, my lucky mouth guard is probably hiding wherever my passport took shelter, and all of my laundry is sitting in a sopping-wet washing machine that stopped working halfway through the cycle.
Awesome.
I kick the washer because what’s the worst that can happen, it’ll fix it?
SMASH.
SLAM.
Nothing.
“Junk,” I grumble, looking at the top-of-the-line piece of garbage that sits in my laundry room. Kicking it once more has it making a weird sound near the base of the machine, and I take a step back. “Apparently, durability was optional when this stupid thing was built.”
I run a frustrated hand over my face, assessing my options.
I have no options.
Calling the hot nurse who works with my Aunt Keisha is a possibility. But only if I want her to associate me with dirty laundry every time I visit the center.
My nostrils flare, and I heave out a heavy breath.
Grabbing my phone from the coffee table in the living room, I text Paige a very rare SOS.
Skye: Are you home? I’m having a bit of a situation.
Paige: Oh, shit. Must be bad if I’m hearing about it.
Skye: So… does that mean you’re home?
Paige: Nope. Sorry. I’m at my mom’s, saying my goodbyes before I head out tomorrow. I’ll be home in a few hours if this wine doesn’t knock me out first.
Wine?