Chapter 3
Zayden
The first day of practice at Valcérre isn’t about skill, it’s about survival. This isn’t just any hockey program. It’s one of the best in the world. And the first practice? It’s meant to break you. It’s the same drill every year. Conditioning first. Nonstop suicides.
“Stretch it out, boys. Sixty seconds,” Coach yells from where he’s standing.
Everyone drops onto the ice. Some are on their backs with legs up, and others are on their knees.
I place one knee on the ice with my stick in front of me before leaning forward to stretch my hips, rotating between the left and the right knee.
Then I switch positions, with both knees on the ice. I hinge my back, and my groin tightens before I feel the stretch. Next, I add some hip rolls to help loosen the muscles.
“That’s enough,” Coach announces. “Now it’s time to work.”
A few freshmen groan under their breath, but no one dares say anything.
“Goal line. Let’s go.”
Every blade hits the ice all at once as we skate toward the goal line. We line up and wait for the signal. Then he blows the whistle, and everyone skates off.
Skate to the blue line, touch it, and back.
Red line, back.
Another blue line, back.
Full length, back.
Timed. No excuses.
“Again!” Coach yells.
We go again.
One of the first-year students trips and slams into the boards. Coach doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to because his disappointment is worse than his anger.
I make it back to the goal line ahead of everyone else. Some guys are hunched over, sweat dripping onto the ice. I’m not one of them, but I feel it, the burn in my legs and the tightness in my lungs. But I don’t slow down.
Show no weakness.
“Aldenhurst gets a free pass because his dad’s the coach.”
The whispers start early. They always do.
“Bet if his last name wasn’t Aldenhurst, he wouldn’t even be here.”
I don’t react. I never do. Because I know what they don’t. I’ve spent the last two years proving I belong here.
As the coach’s son, team captain, and the only Black player on this team, in a sport where I’ve never been given the benefit of the doubt, I don’t get to be just good. I have to be ten times better.
I don’t have the luxury of making mistakes. For me, there are no second chances. Every shift, every game, every drill, I play like I have something to prove.
Because I do.
“You all need to shut the hell up,” Jasper says next to me.
Silence.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders, then nods toward me. “Zayden’s the captain and center for a reason. Because he’s the best player on this team, and you know it. That’s why you’re running your mouths. Because you’re pissed he’s better than you.”
The tension shifts instantly.
Jasper’s not wrong, and they know it.
No one says anything after that.
And I don’t acknowledge it, but the pressure in my chest eases a little. That’s why he’s my best friend; he always has my back. Not that I can’t fight my own battles, but I don’t usually waste my energy on people who have no idea what they’re talking about.
“Number 76, get off my rink,” Coach yells at one of the first-year students.
The kid doesn’t even argue, just slowly skates off the ice.
We continue to have 1v1 board battles.
Scrimmages.
Checking drills.
The entire practice is a war zone.
And I hold my own. I win my battles until Coach finally blows the last whistle. “Off my ice.”
I skate toward the bench with the rest of the team, looking for my blade guards. Some of the guys collapse onto the benches, chugging water like they’ve been parched. I take my helmet off, letting the cool air hit my face, sweat rolling down my back.
He’s standing there writing notes on his clipboard, not even a glance in my direction.
Coach Aldenhurst.
My father doesn’t say a word to me. Not even a nod. Like I didn’t outskate every guy on this ice.
I walk past him without giving him the satisfaction of looking back as we head toward the lockers to shower before going to the lounge to refuel.
Twenty minutes later, we’re at the lounge. There’s a high-end café bar in one corner, stocked with high-protein shakes, high-carb breakfasts, fresh fruit, and recovery meals designed for peak athletic performance.
The air smells like rich espresso, warm oats, and toasted almonds from the high-protein bowls most players order. A few round mahogany tables are scattered around with plush seating. Massive arched windows reveal the vista of the mountains in the distance.
Some of the players sit at the round tables, going over plays from practice and talking about drills.
Others sprawl in the deep leather armchairs by the fireplace, stretching sore muscles.
The rest of them sit at the café bar. Most are focused on their food, already mentally preparing for the next session.
Instead of joining them, I grab a protein shake from the counter and drop into a high-top table near the glass balcony, levitating above the ice below.
I don’t mean to watch, just cooling down and letting my body recover, but my eyes catch on her.
The new girl. The one I caught watching me earlier. There’s something familiar about her, like I’ve seen her before.
She’s with her partner, running through lifts. She’s different from the other skaters, and not because she’s taller and thicker. It’s something in the way she moves. She looks like she belongs there, like the ice is an extension of her.
I sip my shake, watching as they go for another lift. I know it’s going to fail before it even happens. Her partner’s grip on her hips is wrong. His stance is awkward with unease, and it’s clear his balance is off.
And sure enough, he fumbles.
She barely makes it above his shoulders before he wobbles, forcing her back down.
She steps back into her position and tries again.
And again.
And again.
Her brows are pinched together, determination etched on her face. I recognize that look. The fire. The need to be better and the refusal to quit.
“Didn’t take you for a figure skating fan.” Jasper’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I turn just as he drops into the seat next to me, one eyebrow raised.
I scoff, leaning back in my chair and gripping my protein shake tighter than necessary. “I’m not.”
Jasper smirks. “Right.”
I roll my eyes, tearing my gaze away from the rink. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. It’s just practice. Just another skater on the ice. And yet, as Jasper starts talking about one of the drills we did earlier, my eyes drift back to her.
She’s still trying. Still pushing through it like she refuses to lose. For some reason, I can’t stop watching.