Chapter 10
LEONORA
The rest of the week hurts.
Every morning I wake up with new bruises. My shoulders ache, my ribs feel like someone’s been quietly hammering them overnight, and the back of my thighs throb every time I climb the stairs around college.
Body checks.
They keep coming.
Not malicious exactly. But deliberate.
It doesn’t take long to realize what’s happening.
The team is testing me.
Every scrimmage shift someone leans into me a little harder along the boards. Every puck battle turns into a small wrestling match. A shoulder here, a shove there, sticks pressing into my ribs as someone tries to force me off balance.
They want to see if I break.
Or maybe they want to expose the weakness they already think they’ve found.
Mercer isn’t subtle about it.
The first time he drives me into the boards hard enough to rattle my teeth he just skates away afterward like it’s another drill.
No apology.
I get back up every time. I have to.
But I can feel the difference in size when they lean on me. The extra weight behind their shoulders, the way they can pin me against the glass for way longer than I can pin them.
It’s frustrating.
Humiliating sometimes.
But slowly, day by day, the rest of practice gets easier. My stamina improves. The drills stop leaving me gasping halfway through.
And when the lineup is me, Russo and Zane and the puck lands on my stick, I feel how the three of us are starting to read each other without needing to think.
Those moments feel right. Like something real is forming, even if the rest of the team still watches me like a problem they haven’t solved yet.
By Thursday afternoon Coach gathers us at center ice.
“League games this weekend,” he says.
It’s Friday night then Saturday - back-to-back.
They’ll be my first real games for this team, in front of a crowd and a referee, and in front of real opposition.
Coach’s gaze sweeps across the team before landing briefly on me. “Shaw will dress.” He means I’ll probably be playing. I nod slightly inside the helmet, trying to look calm.
After practice I skate a few extra laps while the others head off toward the locker room.
Tomorrow night I’ll step onto this ice as part of the team. This is the part I’ve been dreaming about all week.
It’ll be under a fictional name in front of a crowd that has no idea who I really am. Somehow that feels freeing as well as scary.
ZANE
The arena lights blaze down onto the ice. Even though it’s a league match, the arena is only half full. Guess word about our losing streak has gotten around. Still, the fans that have shown up try to make up for it - they shout over each other from the stands with the familiar chant.
“Let’s go, Giants!”
We’re playing the Silver Lake Eagles.
They’re fast and disciplined in that irritating way teams get when they’ve already figured out how to win.
Which we absolutely haven’t.
The worst part about a losing streak isn’t the losses themselves. It’s what they do to your head. You start expecting things to go wrong. You almost start expecting to lose.
I can feel that tension in our bench during the first period. Everyone skating half a step too cautiously, like we’re waiting for the mistake.
Then our line jumps over the boards.
Russo at center.
Shaw on the left.
Me on the right.
Russo wins the faceoff clean and carries it into the neutral zone, scanning ahead like he always does.
He slides the puck left.
Shaw collects it smoothly along the boards.
One defender closes in immediately.
Shaw doesn’t rush.
That’s the thing about him.
He never rushes.
Like he did in practice, he waits just long enough to pull the defender slightly out of position before slipping the puck back toward the middle.
Russo taps it forward.
I’m already moving.
The puck arrives at my stick at exactly the right moment, perfectly timed so I don’t even have to adjust my stride.
I snap it toward the net.
It slips past the goalie before he can drop.
Goal.
The crowd explodes.
Russo smacks my helmet as we skate past.
“Nice finish.”
But I glance back toward Shaw - that play belonged to him.
Later in the period Russo feeds Shaw along the boards again.
This time Shaw sees the opening himself.
He cuts inside and snaps a quick low shot.
It slides under the goalie’s pad.
The whole rink seems to freeze.
Then the buzzer sounds.
Another goal.
Now the noise is even louder.
Two goals from our line.
The Eagles start to adjust after that.
It happens gradually.
They stop chasing the puck and start chasing Shaw.
They’ve seen it too now.
His timing and the playmaking.
So, they start checking him.
First, it’s just pressure along the boards.
Then full body checks.
Every shift someone leans into him, trying to knock him off balance before he can make the pass.
We can all see the difference - he’s smaller and lighter than an average player.
And eventually someone figures out exactly how to exploit that. It’s not exactly rocket science.
Late in the second period the puck swings toward the boards near our bench.
Shaw reaches it first.
But one of the Eagles defencemen is already coming.
Fast.
Too fast.
The kind of hit that isn’t just a check.
It’s a message.
I see it happening seconds before contact, and something in my chest reacts instantly.
He’s on my line. He’s my teammate.
Whether Mercer likes him or not, whether the rest of the room trusts him yet or not - he’s ours.
I cut across the lane, and the defender crashes into me instead.
The hit slams into my shoulder and drives me sideways a step, but I keep my balance, skates digging hard into the ice.
The puck skitters away.
Play moves on.
I turn toward Shaw.
I’m expecting a nod or a quick thanks.
Instead, he’s staring at me like I just ruined his entire night.
“What the fuck?” he snaps.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him raise his voice all week.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says angrily. “I can handle myself.”
Before I can respond, he pushes past me and skates off toward the play.
I just stand there. There was something about his voice that nagged at me.
The crowd noise rushes back into my ears.
And that reaction wasn’t what I expected at all.
LEONORA
The magic doesn’t last.
The Eagles don’t let up. Every shift someone shadows me, shoulder glued to mine, stick jabbing at the puck before I can even control it. The moment I touch the boards someone hits me. Not always brutally, but constantly. Enough to keep me off balance and to slow the play before it starts.
By the third period my ribs are screaming, and my legs feel heavy from fighting off checks every time the puck comes near me.
And the goals stop.
Our line still pushes - Russo still tries to open lanes, Zane still drives toward the net whenever he gets a chance.
But the rhythm we found earlier never quite comes back.
The Eagles grind the game down into something slower and uglier.
And eventually the scoreboard shifts the wrong way.
Final buzzer.
Another loss.
The crowd noise fades into that familiar disappointed murmur as people start filing toward the exits. I spot Katie and Willow’s worried faces in the crowd. ‘See you at home,’ Katie mouths. I’ll need a gallon of hot chocolate to recover from this.
I skate slowly toward the bench, frustration buzzing under my skin.
I didn’t join this team to help them lose.
I joined because I thought I could help. Because I believed I could make a difference.
Now I’m not so sure.
As we gather near the boards, Zane skates past me.
I deliberately look away.
That hit.
That stupid moment where he stepped in like I couldn’t handle it myself.
I know he meant well, but that’s not what I need. I don’t need protection or pity. I just need to find a way to survive out there.
I grip my stick tighter as I glide off the ice.
The Eagles exposed exactly how teams are going to play me from now on.
And if I don’t figure out a new strategy soon, this whole plan is going to collapse.
ZANE
We’re gathered near the bench after the final buzzer sounds.
The usual end-of-game mess - sticks resting against the boards, helmets coming off, guys half-talking over each other while the crowd thins out behind the glass.
Another loss.
“Shame Lee Shaw doesn’t play like Markus Shaw,” someone mutters.
A couple of guys snort.
“Yeah,” another voice adds. “Shame he doesn’t have his build either.”
A few quiet laughs ripple through the group.
I don’t join in.
I’m still replaying the game in my head - the passes that worked, the checks that didn’t, the moment he snapped at me on the ice like I’d insulted him instead of trying to help.
Then I notice Shaw skating toward us.
That alone is unusual.
All week he’s kept his distance - straight to the ice, straight off again, barely speaking unless someone talks to him first. The guy exists in his own quiet orbit most of the time.
But now he’s coming straight for our group. I wonder if he heard the comments.
He glides right up to us and stops. His helmet is still on.
I brace slightly, half-expecting him to say something to me again about what I did.
Instead, he looks past me - at Chen.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks.
Chen blinks. “Uh… sure.”
There’s genuine surprise in his voice.
Shaw jerks his head slightly toward the far side of the rink.
They skate a few meters away, stopping near the boards. They talk quietly - too quietly for the rest of us to hear.
I watch without meaning to.
Weird.
For some reason the sight of it sends a small, uncomfortable twist through my chest.
Am I… jealous?
That’s ridiculous. Absolutely insane.
I watch the two of them talk for another moment.
Chen nods slowly at something Shaw says.
Then they separate.
Shaw skates off toward the tunnel without looking back.
I stare after him.
Still trying to figure out why that moment bothered me more than it should have.