Chapter 4
LEONORA
I think about Zane Blake way more than I should.
It’s annoying, honestly. I have a system. I watch the Giants from the stands, I experience hockey vicariously through them, then I leave. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
But now when I watch him skate, I don’t just see the reckless, performative way he plays.
I see the guy on the porch.
How he laughed when I made that stupid comment, even though I could see how quiet and tired he was. And then said see you around like he meant it.
It’s a crush.
A stupid, inconvenient, absolutely-not-happening crush.
I don’t admit it out loud. I barely admit it to myself. But it’s there, every time I watch number nineteen cut across the ice.
Then Markus’ visit finally comes and suddenly I have something better to think about.
He’s taller than I remember. Moving through the world with that easy confidence professional athletes carry, the one that makes people turn their heads without knowing why. When he sees me, he hugs me so hard my feet leave the ground.
I give him the tour.
Campus. My favorite coffee spot. The library where Katie, Willow and I study when we’re pretending to be responsible. He laughs at my dorm room - “You live like this?” - and I can see how instantly both my roommates are smitten with him.
But the place I really want him to see is the lake.
Willow and I take him there in the late afternoon, frost crunching under our boots, our breath fogging the air between us, skates in tow.
The lake isn’t perfectly smooth - there are faint white cracks threading through the ice and patches where the wind has brushed snow into soft drifts - but it’s good enough. Good enough that the three of us glide out across it carefully, the sound of our blades ringing faintly in the quiet.
Willow spins once immediately - she can’t help herself.
Her edges carve a perfect circle as she turns, arms lifting gracefully above her head before she settles back into a smooth glide beside me.
“Show off,” I mutter.
She grins. “For the benefit of the professional athlete.”
Markus snorts beside us.
Seeing him here feels weird in the best possible way. My brother belongs in giant professional arenas now, under bright television lights and roaring crowds, not bundled in a winter jacket on a frozen campus lake.
But he looks completely at home.
He skates backwards easily in front of us, hands tucked casually in his pockets.
“Alright,” he says suddenly. “Wait here.” He skates back to his car and returns with three sticks. He throws a puck down in front of us.
“You’re kidding.”
Markus tosses one of the sticks toward me and I catch it.
“What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t bring equipment?” he says.
Willow claps her hands in delight.
“Oh my god, we’re doing this.”
“Wait,” I say, already laughing. “Right now?”
Markus shrugs. “When else?”
He uses his backpack and a tin of coke to make a rough goal.
Professional league star - improvised equipment manager.
“Alright,” he announces, tapping the puck onto the ice. “The two of you versus me.”
“That seems unfair,” Willow says.
“Yeah,” I agree sweetly. “For you.”
Markus rolls his eyes.
The puck slides between us and suddenly we’re playing.
It’s chaos.
Willow glides like she belongs in the Olympics, every movement smooth and elegant, but the moment the puck comes near her she swings and completely misses it.
Every single time.
“Willow!” I gasp, half bent over with laughter as she swings her stick again and hits a spectacular air shot.
“I’m a skater, not a hockey player!” she protests.
Markus steals the puck easily and darts past us both, skating backwards just to be annoying.
“Oh, this is embarrassing,” he calls.
“Give it here,” I snap, chasing him.
And suddenly everything clicks into place.
The sound of the puck skittering over the ice.
The way my body remembers exactly how to move.
Markus cuts left, expecting me to follow.
Instead, I hook the puck cleanly off his stick and slip past him on the outside.
For half a second his surprise is so obvious it almost slows him down.
He recovers fast but I already have the angle.
I push forward, tap the puck once more, and send it sliding neatly between the markers.
Goal.
I throw my arms in the air instinctively.
“YES!”
Willow celebrates behind me like we’ve just won the Olympics.
Markus skids to a stop, staring at the puck in the makeshift goal.
Then he starts laughing.
“Alright,” he says, shaking his head. “Alright.”
Before I can react, he grabs me around the waist and lifts me clean off the ice.
“Hey!” I yelp.
He spins us both in a wide arc across the frozen lake, my skates dangling uselessly while Willow nearly collapses laughing behind us.
“A true Shaw, ladies and gentlemen!” Markus announces loudly to the empty winter night.
I’m laughing too hard to protest.
Eventually he sets me back down on the ice, still grinning.
But when he looks at me again, there’s something thoughtful in his expression now - a little impressed.
And that feeling - the exhilaration still buzzing through my body - lingers long after the puck stops moving.
ZANE
For a couple of days after the opener, I keep thinking about the girl from the party.
Not obsessively. Just in that irritating way a memory hangs around the edges of your brain when you can’t quite lock it into place.
Blonde hair. Calm eyes.
She’d left before I could even ask her name.
The party had gotten loud fast. Someone turned the music up too high, someone else started passing around cheap vodka, and by the time I stumbled back to the dorms I was tipsy enough that the whole evening felt slightly unreal.
Now when I try to picture her properly, the details slip away.
And honestly? It’s for the best. I don’t have time to worry about dating right now.
The next few games haven’t exactly gone better for us.
Coach Calloway starts experimenting almost immediately.
New lines and new tactics. He’s trying to find the combination that makes us actually click.
We’re not bad. That’s the frustrating part. And when everything does line up properly, we’re good enough to tear teams apart.
But it never lasts long enough.
Somewhere in the middle of every game the rhythm slips away again.
Still, the rush never fades.
Every time the arena lights snap on and the crowd starts roaring, the same energy hits my chest like electricity. Fast shifts, the puck moving so quickly you barely have time to think.
Sometimes, without really meaning to, I glance toward the stands.
Just quickly.
A sweep of the rows behind the glass for my talisman from the first game.
The spectator that had shouted.
It’s stupid.
There are hundreds of people in the arena every night.
Still.
My eyes drift upward more often than I’d like to admit.
But I never see her again.
And eventually the memory fades into the background of everything else - the practices and games and the endless push to turn a good team into one that actually wins.
LEONORA
Markus insists on coming to a Giants game before he leaves.
It’s his last night in town and his schedule is already ridiculous - flight early tomorrow morning, training again the day after - but when I mention I’ve been going to watch the team, he raises an eyebrow like that alone is reason enough.
So now the three of us are back in Blackwood Arena.
I swear Willow just tagged along to get extra time with my brother.
She sits on my other side, wrapped in a scarf, eating popcorn and asking questions about how the game works.
Markus lounges back in the seat beside me with the casual confidence of someone who started in this very team but now plays in arenas ten times this size.
The puck drops.
It takes him about five minutes to start frowning.
“Hmm,” he says quietly.
I don’t even have to ask. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” he replies, eyes still on the ice.
The Giants cycle the puck around the offensive zone, but passes are just slightly off target, and the timing isn’t slick enough.
Markus watches for another minute.
“The forward is good,” he says finally. “Aggressive.”
“Zane Blake.”
“The captain has potential. And your goalie’s saving them from embarrassment. But the rest of it…” Markus trails off, watching a sloppy turnover near the blue line. “…they’re panicking.”
I huff out a quiet laugh.
“Thank you.”
Willow glances between us.
“You sound like two scouts.”
The game continues.
It’s fast and messy and frustrating in exactly the same ways as the opening match. The Giants have flashes of brilliance - Blake threading a beautiful pass through traffic, Chen making a glove save that gets the crowd on their feet - but it’s never quite right.
Halfway through the second period the puck slides to the left wing.
The play collapses quickly after that.
A defender steps in hard, sticks clash, and suddenly the winger slams awkwardly into the boards.
The sound carries across the rink like a crack.
The crowd surges to its feet immediately.
Players converge, shoving.
Right in the center of it is Zane.
He squares up instantly, shoulders tense, stick already discarded on the ice as the pushing turns into punches.
The arena erupts.
But I’m not watching the fight.
My attention snaps to the player who went down.
He’s still on the ice near the boards, one leg twisted slightly beneath him while the rest of the chaos explodes around the fight.
That’s wrong. Very wrong.
“Hold on,” I mutter, leaning forward.
Markus notices immediately.
“What?”
“That winger.”
He follows my gaze.
The injured player tries to push himself upright and fails, his weight collapsing awkwardly again as the trainers rush onto the ice.
Markus winces. “Ouch.”
Then he watches another few seconds and adds quietly, “Yeah… he’s not just walking that off.”
Willow’s cheerful expression fades as the reality sinks in.
Eventually the referees break up the fight, and the injured player is helped carefully off the ice, barely able to put weight on his leg.
The energy in the arena shifts after that.
The Giants still lose. Again.
By the time the final buzzer sounds the crowd is already trickling toward the exits.
We file out with them into the cold night air.
The walk back across campus is quiet for a minute.
Then Markus glances sideways at me.
“You’re better than most of those guys.”
I snort. “Please.”
“I’m serious.”
I roll my eyes, but he keeps talking. “And I can see how much you still love it.”
The cold air fogs in front of us as we walk under the streetlights.
Markus slows slightly. “I have an idea. It’s a little crazy but hear me out.”
His tone makes me glance up.
He’s looking at me with the same thoughtful seriousness he uses when he’s analyzing a play.
What the hell is he about to suggest?
Then he says-
“You should transfer.”
I blink.
“To a college with a proper women’s team,” Markus continues. “Somewhere that actually lets you play. I know you’ve just started here, and I can see how much you like it. You’ve got friends.”
He glances at Willow, a quick apologetic look, before turning back to me.
“But I can see it, Leo.” He’s called me that since I was small. “You’re missing out by not playing. Trust me.”
The idea lands between us like a stone dropped into still water.
Willow, walking on my other side, goes very quiet.
I glance at her and catch the thoughtful look spreading across her face.
But the thought of leaving her and Katie - of leaving this beautiful campus, the frozen lake just beyond the trees, the life I’ve only just started building here - doesn’t make me feel excited.
It feels heavy instead.
And all I want, suddenly, is to forget he ever suggested it.