Chapter 34
LEONORA
The house smells like chicken and stuffing again.
The same smell that’s been greeting me since I was a kid, the same warmth, the same feeling of something that hasn’t changed even when everything else has.
“Leonora? I’m in here.”
I drop my bag by the stairs and walk toward the kitchen.
“Mom.”
She crosses the kitchen and pulls me into her arms.
“You’re home,” she says.
“I’m home.”
She holds me tighter. “I read the article. The one from Tennant.”
I tense. “Mom-”
She pulls back and cups my face in her hands. “Your father would have been proud of you. I need you to know that. But… do you remember when you told me about underwater hockey?”
I wince. “I’m so sorry.”
“I knew you were lying. Obviously.”
“You DID?”
“Leonora. Underwater hockey.” She shakes her head. “I googled it. And I saw the cuts on your face when we video called. You think I don’t know when my daughter is playing hockey?”
“Then why didn’t you-”
“Because you needed to do this yourself.” She takes my hands. “You needed to find your way back to the ice. And you did.”
Three weeks later, I’m standing in a parking lot in Toronto, staring at a building that says PWHL NEW YORK in block letters across the front.
My gear bag is slung over my shoulder. My skates are in my hand.
“Stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”
I turn. Markus is leaning against his rental car, arms crossed, that familiar grin on his face.
“You drove six hours for a tryout,” I say.
“I drove six hours to watch my little sister try out for a professional hockey team. There’s a difference.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yeah, I did. You remember what Dad used to say before big games?”
“Head up. Read the play. Don’t rush it.”
He taps my helmet. “You’ve got this. You’re a Shaw. Now go show them what that means.”
There are twelve other players on the ice. Women. All of them are older than me, most of them with more experience.
I don’t think about that.
I think about Markus in the parking lot. I think about Zane, somewhere across the country, probably pacing his apartment because he can’t be here. I think about my father, standing behind the bench, telling me to keep my head up.
The whistle blows.
The drill starts.
I skate.
Afterward, I’m sitting on a bench in the locker room, half out of my gear, trying to remember how to breathe.
Sofia Ramirez finds me there.
“You skated well,” she says.
“I was nervous.”
“It didn’t show.”
She sits on the bench across from me. “We have a few more tryouts to run. Other cities. Other players.” She pauses. “But I wanted you to know - you’re on their short list.”
Oh my god….
“That doesn’t mean you’ve made the team. It means they’re considering.” She tilts her head. “Can you be patient?”
“I’ve been patient my whole life,” I say. “I can wait a little longer.”
Sofia smiles. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
You’re on our short list.
Not “you made the team.” Not “congratulations.” But short list. Which means I’m still one bad skate away from nothing. Still one decision away from watching someone else take the spot.
I should feel excited. I am excited.
But mostly I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I’ve wanted my whole life, and I can’t quite believe the ground is going to hold.
My phone buzzes again.
Zane: How’d it go?
Me: Short list. Not guaranteed.
Zane: Short list means they see you. The rest is just showing them what they already know.
Me: That’s very optimistic for someone who’s trying to launch their career as well!
Zane: I’m full of surprises. Can I call you?
I don’t answer. I just hit the call button.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey.”
His voice does something to my chest. Something that hasn’t changed since the first time I heard it on the porch outside that party, drunk and half-hidden in the dark.
“Hey yourself.”
“You’re on the short list,” he says. Not a question.
“Apparently.”
“That’s huge, Leo.”
“It’s not a contract.”
“It’s a door.” I hear him moving around - probably pacing his apartment, like he does when he’s thinking. “And you’ve never needed anyone to hold a door open for you. You just kick them down.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s a very generous way of describing what I did.”
“I’m describing what you do. Present tense. You’re not done. When do you find out more?”
“Next few weeks. They have other tryouts across the country.”
“Whatever comes next? You’ve already proven you belong. The rest is just hockey.”
“When did you get so good at this?”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to say when I see you next week.”
“Next week?”
“I’m driving down. They don’t need me for a few days.”
“You’re driving across the country for a few days?”
“I’m driving across the country to support my girlfriend as she makes a professional hockey team.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Seems like a good use of my time.”
I’m grinning now. I can’t help it.
“What if I don’t make it?”
“Then I’m driving across the country to see my girlfriend anyway.” His voice drops slightly. “And maybe to remind her that she’s the most dangerous player I’ve ever shared the ice with. Contract or no contract.”
“Zane-”
“I’ve got to go. Coach is calling. But Leo?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens? You’re already exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, something terrifying and wonderful expanding in my chest.