Chapter 28
ZANE
I don’t plan to go to her room the next morning, but I want to tell her about the conversation I overheard before we play the final today.
She looks better than she did yesterday. Still tired, still a little pale, but steadier. The bandage at her collarbone is hidden under a loose top, but I know it’s there.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
I step inside. Her room feels… contained. Separate from the rest of the team already moving through their routines downstairs.
It hits me again how removed she is from all of it.
From us.
“I came to tell you something,” I say.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” I say quickly. Then, “Well… maybe a little.”
I step further into the room, running a hand through my hair.
“I was at the bar last night. Couple of scouts were there.”
That gets her attention.
“They were talking about you,” I add.
“What about me?”
“That you’re good,” I say simply. “Really good.”
She huffs out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It’s not like I can get scouted for a pro team.”
True.
And not.
“People are asking questions,” I say. “About where you came from. Why you don’t do interviews. Why you’re never with the team.”
She looks away.
“That’s going to get harder to explain,” I add quietly.
“I know.”
“Anyway… I just thought you should know. You’re good - and people see it.”
She holds my gaze.
“Thanks.”
I step back toward the door, hand already on the handle.
“Whatever happens today,” I add, glancing back at her, “don’t give them a reason to look any closer than they already are.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“I won’t.”
I nod once.
Then I step out into the corridor, the noise of the day already building somewhere below us.
Something about today feels like it’s going to change everything.
LEONORA
The hotel room is too quiet.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I reach for it, expecting Tara again, or Willow sending something ridiculous to make me laugh.
It’s Zane again.
Scouts are here.
I stare at the message. Zane sent it five minutes ago, probably from the lobby.
One of them is here to watch you.
What?
Her name is Sofia Ramirez. She’s been asking about you.
How do you know all this?
I asked Coach.
Of course he asked. Because that’s who Zane Blake is. Impulsive and completely incapable of leaving things alone.
And also - the thought lands somewhere soft in my chest - the only person in this building who knows exactly who I am and is trying to help me anyway.
Apparently she wants to meet you after.
I set the phone down.
A scout. Watching me. Wanting to meet me.
Obviously that won’t be possible. I’ll have to make an excuse… but it’s flattering all the same.
I stand up and walk to the small mirror above the desk.
The person looking back doesn’t look like a champion. She looks like someone who’s been fighting for every inch of ice for weeks and is too exhausted to pretend otherwise.
But her eyes are steady.
I don’t know what happens today. I don’t know if we win or lose.
My phone buzzes again. Tara.
You ready?
I type back: Coming.
ZANE
The Wolves are waiting at the other end of the ice.
We’ve beaten them in this Showcase already. That’s the difference now. We don’t just believe we can win. We know it.
I tap my stick against the ice and try to shake the nerves loose.
Beside me, Shaw glides into position. She’s quiet the way she always is before games - stick balanced loose in her hands. But there’s something more focused about her today.
She played through the injury yesterday, even after everything. I can see the strain in the shadows under her eyes.
“You good?” I ask, low enough that only she can hear.
She doesn’t look at me. “Fine.”
I watch her roll her shoulder once, twice, testing the range of motion. She’s not fine. She’s just playing anyway.
That’s the thing about Shaw. Or Leonora.
She’s not fine. But she’s here.
The puck drops.
The first period is chess.
Both teams skating hard, feeling each other out, neither willing to give the other anything for free. The Wolves remember losing to us. They’re not making the same mistakes twice.
Russo controls the pace through the neutral zone, patient, waiting for something to open. Chen locks the net down behind us, every save cleaner than the last.
Finally, Russo collects the puck on the far side - his shot is saved but rebounds. I’m there before the goalie can reset.
Goal.
One – nil.
The second period is different.
The Wolves come out angry. Every board battle turns into a wrestling match. Every whistle brings shoving and heated words.
Shaw takes a hit along the boards early in the period and I see her wince - just a flicker, gone as fast as it came - but I know what that wince means. Her injury is screaming. She’s hiding the full impact, but hits like that don’t get easier.
I slide closer to her on the next shift, positioning myself between her and their big defenceman. She notices.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t babysit.”
“I’m not babysitting. I’m playing my position.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m winning.”
She doesn’t respond. But when the puck drops again, she cuts harder, faster, like she’s proving something. Like she’s reminding me she doesn’t need protection.
I know she doesn’t.
But I’m not sure she knows how much I’m starting to need her.
The third period starts at two–one.
We’re winning. Barely. The Wolves have adjusted again, clogging the neutral zone, forcing us to earn every inch.
The puck swings into our zone with seven minutes left. I chase it behind the net, shield it from their forechecker, and send it hard around the boards toward the far side.
Shaw is already moving to collect it.
I see the Wolves defenceman angling toward her. Kozlov. The same guy who’s been running her all game. He’s coming in fast, shoulder down, aiming to pin her into the glass.
I see the angle. It’s not clean. It’s not even close to clean. But the whistle hasn’t blown, the puck is still live, and in this league, that means it’s legal until someone decides it isn’t.
I push off the boards, trying to close the gap-
Too late.
LEONORA
The puck finds my stick along the boards.
The weight is familiar - the vibration through the blade. My body already knows what to do - head up, scan, find the lane. Russo is cutting toward the slot. Zane is trailing behind the play, looking for the rebound.
I pull the puck across my body, ready to pass.
Then I see the hit coming.
It’s not the angle I expected. Kozlov is coming in high - shoulder aimed at my collarbone. Of course he’s targeting my injury.
I brace.
The impact is worse than I expected.
His shoulder drives into me, just below the collar, and pain explodes across my chest. I’m already turning, trying to absorb it, trying to protect my ribs, trying to do everything Chen taught me-
But I’m off balance. The hit has too much force, too much height, and my head whips sideway, hitting off the boards.
I feel the helmet strap give. It’s completely snapped. Something small and mechanical that suddenly means everything.
The helmet lifts off my head before I can grab it.
I see it spinning in the air and then it’s on the ice, skittering toward the corner. The skullcap must have slipped sideways with the force of the impact - I feel my hair loose around my face, spilling over my shoulders, catching the cold arena air.
For one second, the world is silent.
The crowd doesn’t move. The players around me freeze. Kozlov, who was already turning to skate away, stops mid-stride and stares.
I see it happening in slow motion. The recognition spreading across faces. The way their eyes track from my face to my hair to the helmet lying on the ice like evidence.
I reach up, instinct, trying to tuck the hair back in, to hide it, to undo what’s already done. But it’s too late. It’s far, far too late.
The sound comes next.
Not cheering. Not booing. Something in between. A wave of noise that rolls through the stands, confusion and shock and the sharp inhale of three thousand people realizing exactly what they’re seeing.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
The helmet is lying on the ice ten feet away, the strap dangling loose.
And then I hear his voice.
“LEE!”
Zane is already moving, skating between me and the crowd, his body trying to block the view. His hand finds my arm, steady, grounding.
“Get your helmet,” he says, low and urgent. “Now.”
I move without thinking. Skate to the helmet, scoop it up, shove it back on. The strap is broken, it won’t fasten, but I don’t care. I just need it on. I just need to hide.
The whistle blows.
The ref is skating toward me, arm raised, face unreadable. I see him say something into his headset, see the other officials converging near the bench.
On the bench, Coach Calloway is frozen. His face is white. His hand is gripping the boards.
I can’t read his expression. I don’t want to.
The ref reaches me. “Off the ice. Now.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. Blood is roaring in my ears as I skate toward the bench.
The crowd noise is louder now. Some of it is ugly.
Zane is beside me again. I don’t know when he got there. He’s saying something - I can see his mouth moving - but I can’t hear the words. Just the sound of my own breathing, too fast, too shallow.
The bench opens. I step over the boards.
Coach Calloway is there. He’s looking at me, and I see it now - the shock, yes, but something else too. Something that looks almost like understanding.
“Get her to the locker room,” he says to someone. Tara. Tara is there, her hand on my arm.
I let her pull me away. I let her lead me down the tunnel, away from the lights, away from the noise.
Behind me, I hear the whistle again. The game is starting back up.
Without me.
ZANE
I watch her go.
The tunnel swallows her and I’m still standing at the bench.
“Blake!” Russo’s voice cuts through the noise. “Get your head in the game.”