Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Dani was easy to spot.
She stood near the neutral zone with a whistle hanging around her neck, a stick tucked under one arm. She’d traded her usual rink gear for jeans and a team jersey, topped with a knit cap pulled low over her ears. Hockey gloves completed the look, bulky and well-worn.
She looked at ease, like this—teaching, mentoring, surrounded by the next generation of players—was exactly where she belonged.
I forced myself to look away and return to my notes.
The women’s team was hosting a day camp for local girls at the downtown Boston arena.
My network wanted a feature package from the event, something feel-good about the growth of girls’ hockey.
I’d spent most of the morning jotting down details about the drills, the turnout, and the enthusiasm from the young campers.
After a few more minutes, I capped my pen and glanced up at the lower bowl. Parents were scattered through the stands, most of them filming on their phones.
One face looked familiar.
I made my way up the stairs and stopped beside her row.
“You’re Charlotte’s mom, right?”
The woman turned, surprised. As a journalist, I had a knack for remembering names and faces.
Recognition spread across her expression. “Yes—hi.”
“I’m Reese,” I said, offering a quick smile.
“Erin,” she replied.
I nodded toward the ice. “Is she out there? I didn’t recognize her without the pink tutu.”
Erin laughed softly and pointed toward the boards where a small player was fighting to keep control of the puck. “That’s her,” she said. “Number fourteen.”
Charlotte’s movements were small and careful as she stickhandled the puck between staggered orange cones, her focus total, tongue peeking out just slightly in concentration.
“She’s killing it out there,” I observed.
Erin made a humming noise. “I’m glad we decided to come. I didn’t know if she’d be allowed to participate.”
I blinked. “Not allowed?”
Erin hesitated for a second. “The league doesn’t have a gender-inclusive policy.”
Her voice stayed calm, but I could hear the tension underneath it.
I shifted and took the empty seat beside her instead of hovering. “I see.”
“She started skating about two years ago,” Erin continued. “It was a free skate like the one a few weeks ago. She begged us for a hockey stick the very next day.” Her voice softened. “Now she sleeps with it in her room, like some kids sleep with stuffed animals.”
On the ice, Charlotte corralled the puck and nudged it toward the empty net at the end of the rink. When it slid across the goal line, her arms shot into the air like she’d just won the Stanley Cup.
I felt my own mouth tug upward before I could stop it.
Erin watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“I want to encourage her to do what she loves. And she loves sports—hockey especially. She loves playing with her friends. But I know there’s going to be a time when someone tells her she can’t do that anymore.”
Her hands folded together in her lap, and she let out a quiet breath.
“I can’t decide what’s worse—not encouraging her right now and robbing her of that joy, or letting her fall in love with the sport and having someone take it away later.”
Erin watched the ice as Charlotte chased the puck toward the boards, weaving through a line of girls waiting their turn in the drill.
“She doesn’t think she’s different,” she said quietly. “Not out there.”
Charlotte lost the puck and laughed when another girl stole it, immediately skating after her to try and win it back.
A whistle chirped from center ice, and one of Boston’s players called the girls in for the final drill of the day. The rink filled with the scrape of blades and the thump of pucks against the boards, the sound echoing up into the stands.
Erin lifted her phone to record.
“Thanks for talking with me,” I said, quieter now.
“Of course.”
I lingered a second longer before slipping back up the stairs toward the concourse. Her words stuck with me in a way my notes typically didn’t.
By the time I reached the concession stand, the line had thinned out. Parents crowded around the counter ordering coffee and hot dogs and nachos while their kids finished the last few drills on the ice below.
“Two hot chocolates,” I heard myself say.
The teenager behind the counter nodded and turned toward the machine.
It wasn’t until he set the cups on the counter that I realized what I’d done. Steam curled from the small openings in the plastic lids.
Two cups.
I stared at them for a second, debating whether to abandon one on the counter and pretend I’d never ordered it.
Instead, I picked up both.
The rink air hit me again as I pushed through the doorway back toward the lower bowl, the familiar chill settling into my bones.
Kids gathered for a group photo at center ice, kneeling in rows while the pro players stood behind them. Parents clapped from the stands. Someone started a chant that dissolved into laughter halfway through.
The photographer indicated she’d gotten her shot and the players and campers scattered across the ice.
I spotted Dani near the boards, crouched slightly so she could talk to a pair of girls. Both campers nodded solemnly at whatever advice she was giving.
I made my way down the stairs. By the time I reached a break in the glass, the girls were skating off toward the rink’s exit.
Dani straightened and glanced up. Her eyes landed on the cups in my hands.
“Peace offering?” I said, my voice lilting. “It’s cold in here.”
Dani stared at the hot chocolate like it might be a trick. “Careful,” she said. “This is starting to feel like a tradition.”
She accepted the hot chocolate anyway, dropping her hockey gloves at her feet before wrapping her bare hands around the cup.
Behind her, a handful of the younger girls were still circling the ice, reluctant to leave even though the camp had technically ended. One of them—number fourteen—zigzagged between a line of cones someone hadn’t picked up yet.
Charlotte.
Her mom’s words echoed in my head.
I can’t decide what’s worse … letting her fall in love with the sport or having someone take it away.
“Why doesn’t the league have a gender-inclusive policy?”
Dani blinked. I couldn’t blame the shocked expression. She wasn’t in my head; my question must have come out of nowhere.
“They’ve been kicking that can down the road,” she said, “hoping people forget about it or just stop bringing it up.”
“You should say something,” I decided. “Use your influence to demand they establish a policy.”
“My influence?” she echoed. “I’m not the face or the future of the league anymore. I’m a senior citizen that they trot out to sell tickets.”
She was vastly underselling her continued importance to the sport, but I didn’t want to start an argument. Still, it made me wonder if Boston’s tribute game for Cat had gotten her thinking about her own career—legacy, longevity, and what came next.
“Then maybe I’ll use mine,” I said.
Dani arched an eyebrow.
“I’ll write about it,” I explained. “I’ll push it on all of the network’s socials, too.”
“Are you prepared to deal with internet trolls?” she posed.
I curled my lip. “I already do. I’m a female sports reporter. If they’re not claiming women don’t know anything about sports or that I’m a DEI hire, they’re making comments about my appearance.”
Dani wet her lips. “Show me.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “What—you’re going to fight the entire internet to defend my honor?”
“Maybe.”
She looked like she meant it.
I had to clench my hand at my side to keep from reaching out and stroking my fingers across her cheek. She’d always been so protective—whether it was having a teammate’s back if the rare fight broke out on the ice or being the one who walked closer to the street when we’d go for a walk.
Instead of giving in to the impulse, I straightened my spine.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’ve been dealing with naysayers and online cruelty all of my career. You don’t get to be where I am without acquiring some scar tissue.”
Her lips quirked into a somewhat sad smile. “Sounds familiar.”
I knew her career hadn’t been a walk in the park either. Even though we hadn’t stayed in touch, I knew the battles she’d endured after college—professional leagues that had folded, legal battles so the US women’s national team was compensated fairly compared to the US men’s team.
And even with the growing audience for women’s sports, most media paid closer attention to female players who competed in individual sports like tennis or golf rather than team sports.
“Write it, then,” she said finally. “Be loud enough they can’t ignore it.”
The rink had started to empty out behind us—parents gathering their kids, the scrape of hockey skates fading, voices echoing less sharply in the open space.
“You heading out?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Give me a second to ditch these skates,” she said, “and I’ll walk you out.”
The blast of cold air hit the second we stepped outside.
Snow came down in thick, steady sheets, already coating the streets and piling up where the pavement met the sidewalk. The wind cut sideways, sharp enough to sting my face.
“This was not in the forecast.”
Dani glanced up at the sky, squinting as flakes caught on the brim of her knit cap. “Huh.”
The forecast hadn’t called for a Nor’easter, but having grown up in New England, I knew the signs. This was going to get worse before it got better.
“You shouldn’t drive in this,” I announced.
I wasn’t worried about myself. I lived less than a mile from the downtown area. But Dani lived out in the western suburbs, closer to the team’s practice facility.
“It’s just a little snow,” Dani dismissed. “I can handle it.”
“I have no doubt you’re an excellent snow driver,” I replied, “but I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t.”
Dani raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted me to spend the night, you could just say so.”
I snorted. I hadn’t intended on inviting her over. I was only vocalizing that she shouldn’t drive.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Her grin turned coy. “I don’t want you taking advantage of me. Snowed in at your place. Only one bed and all that.”
I shook my head. “You’ve been reading too much sapphic romance.”