29
LEONORA
It starts with Tara’s phone.
A vibration against the table that she doesn’t move to answer straight away.
The Giants won.
That fact sits somewhere in the background, distant and almost unreal. The final is over. The trophy is ours. We’re supposed to be packing, heading back to campus later tonight.
Instead, Tara reaches for her phone.
She frowns.
Then she exhales slowly, the kind of breath that already tells me I’m not going to like whatever she’s about to say.
“Leo…”
Her tone is worried.
“What?”
She turns the screen toward me and shows me the image.
It’s a perfect shot. The timing is spot-on. The clarity is excellent - there’s no blur or ambiguity - no room to explain it away. Just a frozen second in brutal, undeniable detail.
My helmet suspended mid-air.
My long hair - blonde, unmistakable - spilling free.
My face caught in that split-second between impact and awareness.
Exposed.
Craig Tennant’s name sits beneath it.
I know the name. He’s been covering college hockey for at least thirty years. I’ve heard my dad mention him. He’d probably photographed my dad. Probably stood at the boards while Markus played.
And now - he’s captured me.
The headline sits above it.
SCANDAL AS GIANTS PLAYER REVEALED AS WOMAN DURING FINAL MATCH OF SHOWCASE WEEKEND
I make myself read the article.
They’ve figured out exactly who I am. Not just the surface details - first-year sports science, previously played junior league - and the parts that impact others. My family.
Daughter of former Blackwood head coach David Shaw. Sister of professional player Markus Shaw.
They even found a photo of me at twelve, sitting behind my father’s bench, a much younger version of the same face now splashed across every sports site in the country.
None of it redeems me.
The article doesn’t ask why I did it. Doesn’t mention the women’s team that was cut three years ago.
Doesn’t consider that maybe - just maybe - a player who grew up in that college, who learned the game from a man who built the program, might have wanted to play for reasons that had nothing to do with deception.
Instead, it lingers on my father’s probable disappointment.
One can’t help but wonder, the writer muses, whether David Shaw - a coach who built his reputation on integrity and discipline - would recognize the player who took the ice under a false name, or whether he would see her actions as a betrayal of the very principles he spent his career instilling.
I read the sentence again. Would he recognize the player who took to the ice?
He would. He did. He taught me. Every pass, every moment of patience along the boards - that was him. That was us. The article doesn’t know that. Doesn’t want to know. It’s easier to turn my father’s memory into a weapon against me than to ask why his daughter had to lie to play the game he loved.
Then comes the part about Markus.
As for Markus Shaw, whose professional career has been steadily building momentum, the question now is whether familial association will become a liability.
In a league where image is currency and controversy follows talent like smoke, one must ask: can a rising star afford to carry the weight of a sister whose actions have cast such a long shadow?
Or will the Shaw name now carry a taint that no amount of on-ice success can fully erase?
My hands are shaking.
They’re already asking if I’ve ruined him. If my choice will cost my brother the career he’s worked for his whole life. The career that’s supposed to be the part of the Shaw legacy that survived.
“There’s more,” Tara says quietly.
I don’t want there to be more.
But I take the phone anyway.
Scroll.
COLLEGE HOCKEY’S BIGGEST SCANDAL: FEMALE PLAYER DISGUISED AS MAN
WHO IS LEE SHAW? THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
BLACKWOOD GIANTS DUPED BY WOMAN
The words blur together.
“I didn’t-” I start, then stop.
Because what would I even say?
I did disguise myself.
I did lie.
The justification I’ve been holding onto for weeks - I just wanted to play - suddenly feels fragile under the weight of it all.
“It’s important to see the headlines so you know what’s being said. But I’d advise against reading the comments,” Tara says.
Which, of course, means I do.
It’s worse on social media.
The comments are much crueler - completely unfiltered.
She cheated.
Disqualify them.
This is a joke.
Unfair to real players.
My throat tightens.
I scroll.
I shouldn’t, but I do.
How did the team not notice?
This is embarrassing for the Giants.
Strip the title.
Ban her from all hockey forever - women’s teams included!
Each comment chips away at something inside me.
Because I can see it from their side.
I can.
I played under a false name. I took a place that technically wasn’t mine to take. I stepped onto the ice knowing I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Fraud.
The word presses in, unwanted but persistent.
But between the angry comments, there’s a slightly different tone. Mostly coming from women.
Wait… she was actually good though?
She was better than loads of the guys!
She set up half their plays this weekend.
Good for her!
I look at those longer.
Because that’s the truth too.
I was good. I did earn my place.
But I know it doesn’t excuse how I went about everything.
I hand the phone back to Tara and sink down onto the edge of the bed, pressing my hands against my face before dragging them down slowly.
“I feel… icky,” I admit finally. “Like I’ve done something wrong, even though I know why I did it.”
The word sounds childish.
But it’s the closest thing I have.
Tara’s expression softens.
“Because you’re being framed as something you’re not,” she says. “A cheat.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“That’s exactly what I am to them.”
“No,” she says firmly. “That’s what they’ve decided is easiest to understand.”
Her phone buzzes again.
The story is still spreading. Still growing.
“What happens now?” I ask quietly.
Tara reads through the latest announcements.
“They’ve announced an emergency investigation,” she tells me. All games involving ‘Lee Shaw’ are under review.”
“And the final?” I ask.
She hesitates.
“That’s… in jeopardy.”
The room feels smaller suddenly.
We were supposed to go home tonight.
Back to campus.
Back to normal.
Now nothing feels normal.
I glance toward the window.
The sky outside is pale, winter light stretching across the city.
“I just wanted to play,” I say again, softer this time.
It sounds smaller now.
Less certain.
Like something I’m trying to convince myself of as much as anyone else.
Tara rests a hand lightly on my shoulder - careful of the bandage.
“I know,” she says.
And I believe her.
But it doesn’t change the way it feels.
Because somewhere between the moment my helmet came off and now I stopped being a player and became a story.
ZANE
I shouldn’t have opened my phone.
I know that the second Mercer drops down beside me and shoves his screen into my face.
“Have you seen this shit?” he says.
I don’t answer.
I just look.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
The comments scroll past faster than I can process them, a blur of usernames and profile pictures and words that feel… ugly. Not just angry - ugly.
“Imagine getting bodied by a girl and then finding out she was a girl the whole time. These guys should retire.” - @grittygritty
“She tricked them. That’s not feminism, that’s fraud.” - @oldhockeydad
“Her dad must be rolling in his grave. He built this program and she destroyed it.” - @giantsfan4life
“Scouts were there to watch REAL players and got a circus instead.” - @scoutswatch
There are a few positive ones sprinkled throughout.
“Okay but she literally set up heaps of goals. Like. She’s actually good tho?” - @sportsgirlie
“The Giants hadn’t won before she joined. They just won a championship. Numbers don’t lie.” - @statsgirl
“If she was mediocre no one would care. That’s why they’re mad.” - @hockeyhistorian
But then the tone shifts from outrage to something worse.
Something invasive.
“You’re telling me not one of them clocked those tits when they pressed against her on ice?” - @puckme
“Team must’ve needed a fuck buddy on ice.” — @hockeybro4life
I feel a wave of anger. But even more than that I feel… sick. Like I’ve eaten something sour.
“That’s enough,” I say.
Mercer scrolls again.
“Gets worse.”
“I said that’s enough.”
But someone else across the room laughs.
“People are losing their minds over this,” Mercer says, half-disbelieving. “It’s everywhere.”
I reach out and push his phone down.
“Stop showing me that.”
He frowns. “What? It’s not like we didn’t know it was going to blow up-”
“It’s disgusting,” I snap.
The room stills slightly.
I don’t usually snap. I don’t usually sound like that.
I look straight at him.
“It’s disrespectful,” I say. “And she plays better than you, so maybe shut your face.”
Mercer’s expression hardens.
Then he looks away.
Doesn’t argue.
No one does.
Because they all know I’m right.
We leave an hour later.
No celebration.
No proper send-off.
Just bags packed, gear loaded, heads down.
The trophy travels separately with staff.
No one feels like posing for photos.
The bus is waiting outside the hotel.
And so are they.
Press.
More than I’ve ever seen for a college team.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Voices already calling out before we even step through the doors.
“Blake-!”
“Zane - over here-!”
“What’s your response to the situation with-”
“Did you know-”
“Is the title being revoked-”
There isn’t even one question about the win.
Just her.
I push forward, keeping my head down, trying to move through it.
But they don’t let up.
“Where is she?” someone calls.
“Why isn’t she with the team?”
“Is she being disciplined?”
“She cheated - do you think that’s fair to the rest of you?”
My jaw tightens.
Keep moving.
Just get on the bus.
Then one voice cuts through sharper than the rest.
“So what was she doing in the locker room?”
I stop.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
Russo’s hand catches my arm.
“Keep going,” he mutters.
But I turn.
The reporter is right there. Mid-thirties, maybe. Press badge hanging from his neck. Mic already raised.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Did any of you actually know?” he presses. “Was she using her assets to motivate the team before matches??”
Something snaps.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward and swing.
The impact is immediate.
A sharp crack of contact that echoes louder than the shouting around us.
The reporter stumbles back, more shocked than hurt, hand flying to his face.
Everything erupts.
Voices shouting.
Cameras flashing.
“Zane-!”
“What the hell-!”
“Hey - HEY -!”
Hands grab me.
Russo.
Strong, steady, pulling me back.
“Enough,” he says sharply. “That’s enough.”
I’m breathing hard.
My chest is tight, adrenaline flooding through me like I’m still on the ice.
“That was out of line,” Russo adds, lower now. Not angry. Just firm.
“I know.”
But I don’t sound sorry. I don’t feel sorry.
Because all I can hear is the way they were talking about her.
Like she wasn’t a player. Like she wasn’t our teammate.
They were talking about her like she wasn’t even human.
Russo steers me toward the bus.
“Get on,” he says.
I climb the steps without looking back.
Inside, it’s quieter.
The door shuts behind us, cutting off the noise.
For a second, I just stand there.
Hands still clenched.
Trying to get my breathing back under control.
She’s not here, I knew that already.
Tara took her out the back. A quiet exit to avoid the cameras and questions.
I drop into a seat and stare out the window.
The reporters are still outside, pressing against the barriers, shouting questions at nothing now.
Looking for a story.
They’ve got one.
We won a championship.
And somehow that’s the last thing anyone cares about.