Chapter Eight Skye
Chapter Eight
Skye
“I still can’t believe we’re already onto the second preliminary game,” Paige notes, pulling her socks up to her knees. “And honestly? I did not expect to steamroll Finland yesterday. They look like they have their act together when they’re on the ice.”
My shin guards are strapped tight to my legs, and I test them with a quick flex as I listen to the team discussing our shutout from last night.
It really was an incredible game. The girls flew across the ice and were ready for every move the Finnish ladies came at us with.
Not once did Finland get a power play goal, but it came close a few times when Rissa got a little aggressive defending Paige at the net.
Rissa will rip someone’s head off if they touch our goalie. Paige has the safest job in the world, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I wasn’t concerned,” Rissa declares as she slides her hockey pants over her hips and adjusts the belt. “They’re good, but they don’t have our Cappy.”
My eyes narrow at Paige, who refuses to make eye contact with me.
“Awe, come on, Cappy.” Riley gets in a little jab as her hand lands on my shoulder. “You know we love you.”
I swing, but she’s too quick, and I almost slam my hand into the chair beside me.
Little fuckers.
I’ve only played with Riley since we found out we were heading to the Olympics two months ago, but I feel like she’s always been a part of the team. Most of us met for the first time at an Applebee’s in Boston, since we decided it would be best to fly to Milan from there.
Applebee’s over anything fancy because we prefer to act like real people and not celebrities.
Coach Madsen even came with us, and her tough exterior melted a little when she watched us all mingle and talk strategy.
One of the best meals of my life. And it wasn’t because of the Chipotle shrimp bowl I ordered, though, honestly, that was pretty damn good too.
It was just the dynamic of us as a group, and the knowledge that we had made it.
I blink a few times before glancing around the room, seeing if anyone else would like to test my patience.
Paige is still refusing to look at me, avoiding the impending glare she knows she’ll get as Coach Madsen walks into the locker room. She waits until we calm down with tape, helmets, and pre-game talk before her hands shift to her hips; a dead giveaway that she’s about to give us a pep talk.
She’s dressed for business in a team jacket, dark athletic pants, and a whistle around her neck. Her long hair is pulled back tight with no loose strands, no jewelry besides her simple wedding band, no distractions.
“Alright. Eyes up.” Her voice is calm but demanding.
She nods once. “Good win yesterday; we earned it. We played our system, we trusted each other, and we showed exactly why we’re here.
” A pause as her tone shifts to something more serious.
“That game is over now.” She taps at the logo on her jacket and looks around the room.
“This is the Olympics. Every team we face from here on out is faster, hungrier, and studying our plays. They want to catch us slipping.” Her hands drop back to her hips. “We don’t slip.”
The girls are all nodding now, but they don’t stop looking at Coach.
She owns the room each time she steps into it, and nobody will ever deny that about her.
Coach Madsen is one of the few women I admire, besides my Aunt Keisha, of course.
She’s just one of those women whom I see girls having as posters on their walls with “#goals” stickers pasted on them.
“Trust your legs. Trust your instincts, and don’t wait for the game to come to you. Take it.” She gives us a small smile, and we know she’s in a good mood.
We rise as one, already braced for what’s coming.
The room tightens, energy snapping into place, and even Coach is locked in with us.
Then it hits. Those four words we say every time before we step out.
Grins break wide, adrenaline keeps buzzing, and we fire it off together. “Let’s do this thaaaaaang!”
The buzzer sounds, and for half a second, everything goes quiet in my head. Then, the noise crashes in.
Sticks hit the ice, gloves grab my shoulders, someone yells my name through a laugh. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until it leaves me in a sharp exhale that has my lungs burning.
We did it. Again.
I tap Paige’s goalie pads first, hard and deliberate. “Hell of a game,” I beam, because that’s what a team captain says to her players. My voice is steady because it always is; I don’t let it crack even a little.
Inside, something is pulling at my chest. Two wins. Two Olympic prelims. The crest on my jersey feels heavier the closer we get.
I lead the handshake line with the officials and turn back to my team, lifting my stick once toward the stands.
The crowd is a blur of flags, number 13 signs, and noise.
Even kids are sporting my number, number 13, painted on their faces.
People are crying, strangers are screaming like they’re the ones down here on the ice.
Like this matters to them as much as it does to us.
And it does. This isn’t just a game. It’s pride, hope, and something to believe in all at once.
My team and I skate off the ice together, and I make sure nobody lags. I count heads, watch shoulders, read body language, even during the celebration.
Blades clink and clatter against the rubber as we step through the bench door. My legs are burning, my lungs feel raw, and I welcome every part of it.
In the tunnel, the noise fades into the laughter of my team as it bounces off the concrete walls. Someone bumps into my shoulder, and I turn to see Rissa. “Two and oh, Cappy.” Her grin tells me she can’t believe we did it again.
Fuck the nickname, but I can’t even yell about it with the pride I have rushing through my insides.
My throat feels tight as we push into the locker room because I remember mornings before sunrise, empty rinks, years where we didn’t get this far, teammates that aren’t here but should be. I think about Aunt Keisha and the nurses at the care center watching from home.
And I think about how badly I wanted this. For my aunt, my mom, and me. For my teammates and my coach, who have worked so hard to get us here. And for the millions of fans watching the games all over the world.
I hang back for a second, just inside the doorway.
I look at my team, flushed, loud, and alive with the high of the win still hanging on them.
Something warm and overwhelming spreads through me.
Satisfaction, maybe? Or relief. Or the terrifying realization that we’ve almost qualified for the quarterfinals.
My stomach twists at the thought of the teams already packing their bags, their tournaments over. That could have been us. One bad bounce, one mistake, and we’d be the ones walking out in silence.
“Enjoy it,” I tell them, pushing myself from the doorway and making my way into the locker room. “Then we reset.”
They cheer, high-fives all around as I walk toward the bench. And this time, when I smile, I don’t hide it.
“Hello?” I hear confusion in Violet’s voice as she answers the phone.
“We won. We won the second preliminary game, and I had to call and tell you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can’t tell if I made a mistake by calling or if she doesn’t know how to reply.
“That’s awesome!” The excitement in her voice has me letting out a long, slow breath. “How do you feel? How many more games?”
My smile widens, and I start talking more than I ever would with anyone who isn’t my Aunt Keisha.
“I feel amazing.” I fidget with my jet-black braid that’s dangling over my shoulder. “The crowd was so loud in the arena that my head couldn’t handle it. And the team was hyped after the game. I had to stand back and just breathe for a minute.”
“That’s pretty intense.” I can hear the smile in her voice, which kicks mine up another notch.
“Yeah. We have two more preliminary games, and then the quarterfinals if we make it that far.”
“So, like twenty more games. Got it.”
I laugh. “Sure feels that way, but no.”
I dock my phone by the wheel, needing my hands free, and wait for Paige and Rissa to reach the car. I managed to get to my car early enough to call Violet before we head back to the hotel, and I don’t want to let my mind wander toward the reasons why.
“Are you heading out to celebrate?” The Bluetooth kicks on, and her voice fills the car speakers.
“We can’t get too crazy. We have another game tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Ah, no tequila shots for you,” she teases. “I don’t think I’d be able to carry you up to your room and tuck you in.”
I actually laugh out loud, which makes her laugh. Butterflies start roaming in my gut at the thought of her in my bed.
How does she make me feel like this? I hardly even know her. And besides, we’re just friends.
“Are you going out with the team for dinner?”
“We are doing something as a team tomorrow after our third game. Tonight I’m getting a shower and staying in.”
“Oh, I gotcha.”
I can’t help thinking I hear disappointment in her tone. Or maybe it’s me hoping she’ll want me to say something else.
I’m actually planning to meet you at your hotel room door.
Cheesy. I could never.
But I can’t seem to stop myself as my mouth takes over and says, “Unless you need company for some reason.”
“No!” She’s quick to shoot me down, but she sounds panicked. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m sure you’re probably sore. I was going to head to Zelo to grab a quick bite.”
Ouch.
She really isn’t into me at all. We really are just friends.
“But if your relaxing night is feeling a bit too calm, I… wouldn’t mind talking in person.”
Wait. There’s hope?
Then she adds, “It might be nice to actually be face to face instead of staring at a phone screen.”
My heart rate immediately punches through my chest. Paige and Rissa come through the door into the parking garage, and I don’t want the panic of them finding out about Violet to erase the excitement of getting to spend time with her.
I have no good reason for hiding Violet from anyone. It’s not like we’re dating, or she’s asked me not to say anything about us talking. My go-to reaction has always been to keep everything about me private, and I guess I’m not ready to change that yet.
Maybe I need to learn to be more approachable.
Fuck me for actually having that thought. I guess it’s time to put things into action.
Step one: Be more approachable.
Step two: Talk to people about my personal life.
Maybe that’s not step two. More like step twenty-seven.
“I can meet you there at five,” I tell her, wanting to solidify our plans and trying not to sound like I’m in a rush to hang up.
The smile returns to her voice. “I guess I’ll see you in a few hours then.”