Chapter 6
ZANE
The hit keeps replaying in my head.
Not the fight.
That part is easy to forget. Hockey fights flare up and burn out all the time, a quick explosion of adrenaline before the refs drag everyone apart and the game moves on.
It’s the hit before it that sticks with me.
Our left wing, Tyler Grant, never saw it coming. The defender came in hard from the side, shoulder driving straight through him into the boards. It was late. Ugly. The kind of hit that makes the entire bench go quiet for half a second before the anger kicks in.
Which is when the fight started.
I’d been in the middle of it before I even realized my gloves were on the ice.
But now the reality of it has sunk in - we’re down a forward.
And not just for a game. Maybe for a few weeks.
Which would already be bad if the season was going well… but it isn’t.
The locker room is quieter than usual at practice the next morning. It’s tense in that way teams get when everyone knows things are really starting to slip.
Russo sits beside me tying his skates.
“You hear what Calloway’s doing?” he asks.
“No.”
“Tryouts.”
I look up. “For what?”
Russo shrugs. “For Grant.”
Our injured winger is already getting scans done somewhere across town.
“And we’re just… inviting random people?” I ask.
“Open call.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
Apparently, the plan is simple.
Let a few people come skate with us. Run them through drills. Maybe a short scrimmage.
If someone somehow manages to keep up, they get the spot as a temporary stand-in until our guy heals.
Desperate times.
I sit back against my locker. “That’s not going to work.”
Russo finishes tying one skate and shrugs. “Probably not.”
The problem isn’t that people won’t show up.
The problem is that anyone good enough to play at this level is already playing somewhere. College hockey isn’t the kind of thing you accidentally wander into because you saw a flyer on campus.
You spend years chasing it, and even then, half the time you don’t make it.
Across the room Coach Calloway walks past the lockers, talking quietly with one of the assistants.
He looks calm, like always.
But I can see the calculation in the way his eyes move across the room.
He knows the same thing we do.
We’re running out of options.
Russo stands up and taps his stick against the floor.
“Could get lucky.”
I snort.
“With a campus-wide try-out?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Name one.”
He smiles slightly but doesn’t answer.
Practice starts a few minutes later.
The ice is bright under the arena lights. The familiar rhythm kicks in quickly - skates cutting hard across the surface, pucks snapping against sticks, Calloway’s voice calling instructions across the rink.
For a little while the problems fade.
But when practice ends and the conversation drifts back to the upcoming try-out, the same thought creeps back in.
A wide call like that isn’t going to produce anything useful.
Not at this level.
If someone good enough to play with us suddenly appears out of nowhere…
It would be a miracle.
LEONORA
My heart is already racing and I’m not even at the rink yet.
I stand in front of the dorm mirror, turning sideways and then back again, trying to see what everyone else will see.
A stranger.
Hopefully.
The baggy practice jersey Willow found hangs loose around my shoulders, long enough to hide the shape of my hips. Underneath it I’m wearing two layers and a compression shirt, trying to flatten everything that might give me away.
It’s not perfect.
But it’s… passable.
Maybe.
Willow stands beside me, tucking every stray hair into the skullcap like this is the most normal morning activity in the world.
“You look great,” she says.
“That is not the word I’d use.”
She glances up.
“Intimidating?”
“Suspicious.”
She laughs.
“Trust me. Half the guys there will still be half asleep.”
I pull the skullcap down tighter over my hair. When the helmet goes on, nothing will be visible anyway.
That’s the theory.
“Remember,” Willow says, standing up and brushing her hands together, “don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. You’re not there to be friends with those guys.”
“I know.”
“And keep the helmet on.”
“I know.”
“And don’t panic.”
I give her a look. “That one might be difficult.”
She grins. “Just skate.”
I nod. Because that part I can do.
I glance once more at the mirror.
The person staring back looks unfamiliar.
A little broader.
A little rougher.
Not Leonora Shaw.
Every sensible part of my brain is screaming that I should stay here.
Close the door.
Open the anatomy textbook.
Forget this idea ever existed.
Instead, I reach down and grab my hockey stick.
The weight of it feels so familiar in my hands that something inside me calms immediately.
I glance at Willow.
“Ready?”
She beams.
“Let’s go make terrible decisions.”
ZANE
Coach Calloway clears the entire Sunday schedule for the try-out.
Which says everything about exactly how desperate we are.
Normally Sundays are lighter - recovery skates, some drills, maybe video review if the last game was ugly enough to deserve it. Instead, we’re all here early, gear on, sticks tapping impatiently against the boards while a handful of hopefuls wait nervously near the bench.
Russo leans beside me against the glass.
“You ready to meet the future of the sport?” he mutters.
I glance toward the group.
There are maybe twelve of them.
A few look like they’ve played before. Most of them look like they wandered in after seeing a flyer somewhere on campus and thought it might be fun to try.
I sigh. “This is going to be painful.”
Russo smirks.
Coach skates out to the center circle and blows his whistle once.
“Alright,” he calls. “We’ll bring you out in pairs. Short drills. Keep moving. Don’t overthink it.”
The first two hop onto the ice.
Within thirty seconds it’s obvious.
The first guy skates like he’s wearing bricks on his feet. Every stride is heavy and awkward, blades scraping loudly across the ice. The second guy has decent speed but handles the puck like it’s actively trying to escape him.
Russo and I exchange a look.
“Promising,” he murmurs.
It gets worse.
The next pair somehow manages to collide with each other during a simple passing drill.
One guy skates surprisingly well until he tries to shoot and completely whiffs the puck.
Another is clearly strong but has absolutely no sense of positioning within a team, drifting around the ice like he’s lost.
Coach keeps his expression neutral through all of it, but I can see the slight tightening in his jaw.
Desperate plan or not, he was still hoping someone useful might appear.
So far?
Not even close.
An hour passes like this.
Players come out.
Players leave.
Nothing changes.
Chen leans on the top of his stick near the crease.
“If one more guy shoots directly at my chest,” he says, “I’m retiring.”
Coach calls for the next pair.
Two more skaters hop over the boards.
The first one looks decent enough - quick feet, decent skating control - but nothing special.
Then the second guy steps onto the ice.
At first glance there’s nothing remarkable about him.
He’s smaller than the average hockey player. He has a lean build, and his practice jersey hangs loose around his shoulders. His helmet is already on so I can’t see much of his face.
He taps his stick once against the ice.
Then the drill starts.
And immediately something feels different.
His first stride is clean.
Efficient rather than flashy. His speed is controlled.
The puck comes to him during the passing drill, and he receives it like it belongs there, stick soft enough to absorb the impact before sending it smoothly back across the ice.
Russo straightens slightly beside me. “Huh.”
Now I’m watching properly.
Next drill - tight turns around the cones.
He cuts through them easily, edges biting the ice with confident precision.
No hesitation or wasted movement.
When the puck slides his way again, he handles it without looking down once.
Okay.
Now I’m paying attention.
The other guy in the pair is clearly trying hard, but the difference between them is obvious.
One of them is thinking about every movement.
The other just skates.
Coach calls for a short rush drill.
Two defenders against the pair.
The puck ends up on the newcomer’s stick.
He hesitates for half a second at the blue line, reading the gap.
Then he moves.
Fast.
He pulls the puck slightly inside, forcing the defender to commit, then slips past him with a quick shift of weight that leaves just enough space to cut toward the slot.
The whole play happens in about three seconds.
Where the hell did that come from?
He shoots low.
Chen blocks it easily but still looks a little impressed.
Coach blows the whistle.
“Again.”
This time the rush goes the other way.
The newcomer tracks back instantly, covering the defensive lane without being told.
Russo glances at me.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
By the time the pair skate back to the boards, the entire team has gone quiet - they’re curious.
We’ve all spent the last hour watching disaster after disaster and suddenly someone appears who actually looks like they could belong here.
Coach says something quietly to the assistants before calling the next pair.
But I barely pay attention to the rest.
My eyes drift back toward the bench where the newcomer stands waiting.
He doesn’t talk to the other players.
Just leans slightly on his stick, breathing evenly, his helmet cage still hiding most of his face.
Coach eventually calls for the final drill.
A short scrimmage - five minutes.
The newcomer jumps in again.
This time Coach catches my eye from the boards and jerks his head toward the ice.
My cue.
I hop over the boards and glide into position opposite him, tapping my stick once against the ice. Up close he looks even smaller than I thought from the boards - shoulders narrow under the loose practice jersey.
Not weak.
Just… lighter.