Chapter 2
NO EASY GOALS (KIERAN)
I’m not used to taking a loss. Especially not in my own damn house.
That’s exactly what last night was.
It keeps replaying—Wren looking me dead in the eye and shutting me down in front of the crowd. No hesitation. No giggle. No “maybe later.” Just one syllable that lodged under my skin and refused to come out.
No.
That word follows me onto the ice the next morning.
“On the line!” Coach McCarthy’s whistle slices through the rink.
The arena is cold enough to bite, fluorescents buzzing overhead, ice still pristine and waiting to get carved up. We’re already dripping sweat from warm-ups, but bag skates don’t care about comfort. We line up on the goal line, bent over our sticks.
McCarthy paces the blue line, gray hair plastered to his forehead under a faded BU cap, eyes keen as fresh blades. He’s got that look—the one that says someone’s about to suffer for last week’s sloppy performance against Vermont.
“Suicide sprints,” he barks. “Goal line to blue and back. Red and back. Far blue and back. Far goal line and back. That’s one. We’re doing ten.”
A groan rolls through the team.
“You think Harvard’s gonna take it easy on you Friday?” McCarthy’s voice hits the rafters. “Move!”
The whistle screams, and we’re off. Full sheet down, full sheet back, legs burning, lungs tearing. My edges bite into the ice, carving clean lines while my thighs light up. Again. Again. By the third rep, Dalton’s cursing under his breath next to me, and I almost laugh, except I can’t breathe.
“Move your ass, Dalton!” Coach bellows. “This isn’t tea time!”
Mason taps his stick behind me at the crease, my roommate, our starting goalie and captain, yelling at the boys to pick up the pace.
I dig in harder, crossovers flowing, sweat dripping down my temples despite the cold.
Being an A means you don’t coast. McCarthy rides me harder than most, and I take it, because wearing a letter means you set the pace whether your legs feel like cement or not.
But an A isn’t the C.
That hits even harder because of my big brother Liam, the captain of the New York Defenders, the one every coach and scout puts on a pedestal.
I’ve been skating in his shadow since I could tie my skates, and now that letter is the bar I’m measured against. Backyard rinks, youth leagues, juniors, college.
It never matters how many goals I bury or how hard I work. Liam set the pace. I just chase it.
Even now, I’m technically “safe.” Finish senior year, don’t blow out a knee, and I’ve got a spot waiting with the Defenders.
All lined up. All convenient. All because of my brother.
Nobody says it to my face, but I hear it in certain laughs: must be nice to be a legacy.
Every goal I score has an asterisk only I can see.
On top of it, full ride covers tuition, but it’s Liam’s checks that keep my fridge full. Liam’s captaincy that opens doors. Liam’s name that got me the conversation with their GM in the first place.
Which means every time Coach pushes me, every time the guys needle me, every time I even think about letting up—I hear Liam’s name echoing from NHL rinks, reminding me that good isn’t good enough when your brother’s already great.
Usually, that’s enough to keep me sharp. Usually, I skate harder just to shut the echo up.
But today, it isn’t my brother’s voice in my head.
It’s hers.
That one word.
No.
We finish suicides and move straight into battle drills. Coach blows the whistle. “Two-on-two corners! Winner stays, loser runs another suicide!”
And this is where practice gets nasty. Puck battles in the corner are pure warfare, separating the tough from the broken.
“O’Connor, Reed—you’re up!” McCarthy points us to opposite corners.
Reed’s six-two, two-twenty, and mean as hell. Off the drop he rides me into the glass, stick across my ribs, trying to staple me there.
I eat the first shove and let him lean—inside edge heavy, hips loading, setting up the wrap.
That’s the tell.
I knife my blade under his, make him chase hands instead of the puck, then spin off the wall—shoulder through his chest, skates biting. His elbow flares, the gap opens for half a beat. I pop the puck loose and slip out of the jam.
“That’s it!” McCarthy pounds his stick on the ice. “O’Connor, that’s championship-level puck protection! Reed, you see that patience? That’s how you win battles!”
Reed skates past me, jaw clenched, and I keep my expression neutral. But inside? That felt good.
We run breakout drills next, getting the puck out of the zone clean under pressure. I take a hard forecheck, wait for the opening, and thread a pass tape-to-tape through two defenders. We finish the rush with a ringing shot off the post.
Coach gives me the smallest nod. That’s as close to praise as you get from McCarthy.
By the time practice ends, we’re wrecked. The ice is scarred with blade marks, sweat soaks through my undershirt, and my legs are trembling. My lower back aches from the hits, my shins throb despite the pads, and I’ve got a cut on my lip I don’t even remember taking.
My body’s battered from two hours of contact, but it’s Wren’s single syllable that keeps landing. Over and over. No.
“Off the ice! Film room in twenty!” McCarthy barks. “And O’Connor, don’t think for a second you’re untouchable. You slip, the whole team slips. Keep your edge honed.”
“Yes, Coach,” I manage.
The guys shuffle off, exhausted, but not too tired to start chirping the second we hit the locker room.
The place is pure chaos. Gear clattering into stalls, music blasting from somebody’s speaker, steam fogging the air from showers. The smell is sweat, tape adhesive, and someone’s body spray that could strip paint.
I drop onto the bench and start peeling off my gear. Shoulder pads first, then elbows, shin guards hung on their hooks. Routine keeps you sane in this sport.
I’m trying to ignore the inevitable when Reed decides to open his mouth.
“Hey, O’Connor.” He leans around from two stalls down, grinning, tape still wrapped around his knuckles. “How’s Library Girl? Still thinking about you, or you thinking about her?”
The room erupts in laughter. A couple guys bang their sticks on the floor.
I yank my chest protector off and don’t look up. If you react, they win. Hockey 101.
But Reed doesn’t need me to react to enjoy himself.
“She’s not even hot,” he drawls, unlacing his skates. His voice carries; it’s designed to. “Quiet little mouse in thrift store clothes. Probably smells like textbooks and ramen. Since when do you fish in the kiddie pool, O’Connor?”
My head snaps up. There’s chirping, and then there’s crossing the line.
“Watch your mouth,” I bite out.
He smirks, working his laces. “Touchy. Must’ve hit close to home.”
Jackson pipes up from across the room. “Maybe he’s losing his touch. First the Vermont game, now this.”
“Vermont was a team loss,” I snap.
“Sure,” Reed says, finally looking at me. “But you went zero-for-three on the power play. Looks like you’re off your game everywhere.”
He lets that sit a beat, loud in the steam and music.
“Lucky for you the Defenders are feeling generous with family.”
The locker room goes quiet except for running water and humming ventilation.
My jaw locks. If I look soft anywhere—on the ice, with girls, in life—the story becomes I only got here because of Liam. Not talent. Not work. Just legacy.
That’s the chirp under all the other chirps, and everyone knows it.
The room stays tense for a beat, waiting to see if I’ll snap. But I’ve been getting needled since peewee. You don’t give them the satisfaction.
I slam my gear into my stall. Fine. Wren said no once. That doesn’t mean the game’s over. In hockey, you don’t win by accepting the first check. You get back up, adjust your approach, and hit back twice as hard.
Isabelle thinks she handed me a losing bet? Reed thinks he can question my game? Not happening.
Nobody tells me no and leaves me questioning myself. Not coaches, not crowds, not girls at parties who usually trip over themselves to hand me their number. This shouldn’t be any different.
I’m not walking away on a no. And I’m doing it the same way I score goals—with patience, precision, and the absolute certainty that I don’t accept defeat.
Through film review, even during dinner with the guys, that “no” sits in my chest like a challenge I can’t shake. I should let it go. Move on to easier targets.
I don’t.
That night I come up with a plan. Pride, stupidity, definitely both. There’s no way I’m letting it stand.
I tell myself it’s about pride. About winning.
But the truth is simpler—and worse.
I can’t stand that she saw through me and walked away untouched.