Chapter 25
twenty-five
MORGAN
I’m staring at my whiteboard—yes, whiteboard, because we can't afford iPads and the men's program doesn't have any surplus—like it has the meaning of life.
But instead, I'd be happy to find the meaning of the breakdown in our defensive zone from tonight's game, which cost us a goal and almost cost us the win.
We're not flashy and high-scoring. We're disciplined and tough, and that means one goal can sink us. Luckily, tonight we scraped home, thanks to a nice little piece of work by our second line, but I'm still feeling annoyed that it came down to that at all. I made a mistake, so we made a mistake.
But before I can figure it out, or at least keep punishing myself, Mills steps in front of the whiteboard.
Which is ironic, given Mills is the one who missed the defensive assignment and let in the goal.
But now her arms are crossed, while nearby, Sarah and Jen are grinning like conspirators who just pulled off a heist.
“We’re going out, Captain.” Mills’s voice carries that same fuck-you-I’m-not-moving energy she brings to zone defense. “And you’re coming.”
“No.” My reply comes out flat and automatic, because going out means a bar, and a bar means grabby-handed idiots. "Have fun though."
Mills doesn’t budge. If anything, she lowers her center of gravity, as if I might actually shove her aside. “When was the last time you did something fun?”
“I find film review and analysis of defensive breakdowns satisfying," I say. "And there's some leftover Chinese in my fridge with my name on it. Quite literally."
Sarah actually snorts. “We just won. We executed every drill you hammered into us, and now we want to celebrate with you.”
The hope in their eyes hits harder than any bodycheck, because normally they're more than happy with the captain, me, and team, them dynamic. They joke around among themselves, then stiffen up when I'm around, whether out of respect or fear.
This is the first time they've sought to include me.
But part of me also wonders if they've noticed the change in me.
It's undeniable even to me at this point.
Because, for the couple of weeks I've been 'allied' with James—him getting me gear and me getting him a decent grade—I've felt myself beginning to lighten up just a little.
In fact, instead of my walls going back up, it's like they've been replaced by a nice little garden and sunshine.
I felt it in small, deniable ways at first. A little smile or a wry shake of my head at a joke.
But the others are clearly noticing as well.
I—we—are still professional as hell on the ice, but there has also been a fractional easing of the tension around the team, like I had everyone on edge and afraid to screw up.
And our play has become even better because of it.
We're a team with an edge, uncompromising on the basics, with more flair.
Sometimes you just need to turn your brain off and be an idiot for an hour.
James's voice echoes unbidden, a memory from our last study session, when I’d been wound so tight about his paper that he’d physically taken the red pen from my hand, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to make my brain forget what a thesis statement was.
But even as I lighten up a little, I can't swim totally to the deep end.
So, instead, I look for the logic and the way to emotionally hold onto the side of the pool.
And it's clear: team cohesion requires shared experiences, and controlled vulnerability can strengthen unit bonds, so going out is a reasonable option.
“Fine.” The word tastes like surrender mixed with battery acid. “I'll come out for an hour, because not doing so would be bad for team morale.”
Mills whoops, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. “The Down Low, an hour from now, and don’t you dare bail on us, Captain.”
They scatter before I can change my mind, leaving me alone with my whiteboard and the terrifying realization that I just agreed to enter a social situation voluntarily without an exit strategy.
The Down Low assaults every sense the moment I walk through the door.
The bass rattles my bones, the air is thick enough to chew, and as I walk through the place looking for my team, there's so much touching. Someone’s elbow clips me, a girl’s hair whips across my face, and when two frat bros won't get out of my way, I have to restrain myself from hitting one.
I find my team at several high-tops near the bar, already a few drinks deep judging by their volume and Sarah’s flushed cheeks. Rachel is demonstrating some kind of defensive maneuver that looks more like interpretive dance, and when Mills catches my eye, she raises her beer in triumph.
They look… happy.
Young.
Like actual college students instead of the warriors I’ve been forging.
After a trip to the bar, my club soda sweats in my grip.
I run threat assessments on every backwards-hat-wearing bro in the vicinity: a table of football players, drunk enough to think they’re charming; a cluster doing shots, eyes scanning for targets; and one lone guy who’s been staring at Mills’s ass for thirty seconds—
Then a familiar laugh cuts through the noise, and my body goes on high-alert.
James.
He’s at a corner table with Schmidt and Cooper, head thrown back in laughter. Here, in his natural habitat, he’s magnificent. The cramped bar that makes me feel like I’m drowning seems to energize him. He transforms chaos into something magnetic, drawing people into his orbit without trying.
His head turns, and our eyes lock across the crowded room.
The smile doesn’t leave his face, but it changes, softening into something private, something that exists only between us. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second—long enough for me to know he’s thinking about the stairwell, about the desperate press of my body against his…
… and about that night on the beach.
I’m thinking about it too. About his hands on my waist, fingers splayed possessively. About the sound he made when I bit his lip… half gasp, half groan, all want. About how badly I wanted to let him lift me against that wall and fuck me right there where anyone could have caught us.
A month ago, this moment would have sent me running. But tonight, I give him the tiniest nod. His smile widens, and it's slow and cute and charming and devastating, because now I know this man is capable of depth and kindness. He raises his beer slightly to toast me, then turns back to his friends.
“Captain!” Mills materializes at my elbow, face flushed with victory and Bud Light. “Stop being a wallflower and dance with us!”
“I don’t dance.”
“Bullshit. Everything is dancing. Hockey is dancing. Fighting is dancing. This is just dancing to shitty music.”
Before I can list the tactical differences—no protective equipment, no clear objectives, the disturbing amount of grinding—she grabs my hand and pulls.
I could resist her, planting my feet and maintaining my position where it’s safe and controlled, but then I glance over and see James watching with that smile.
A smile that almost looks like a dare.
Something about the light in his eyes makes me remember how young we both are and how much time I’ve wasted being afraid.
All that time, protecting myself from hurt instead of chasing joy, wasted.
So, letting go and living just this once, I let Mills pull me into the circle my team has formed on the dance floor’s edge.
The music is objectively terrible—some auto-tuned nightmare about bottles and models—and the bass feels like repeated chest compressions, but my team doesn’t care. They move with graceless enthusiasm, arms around shoulders, laughing at their own ridiculous rhythm.
But me?
I stand frozen.
Every muscle locked.
This was a mistake.
I don’t know how to just… let go.
As if sensing my hesitation, Sarah grabs one hand, slightly sticky with spilled drinks, and Rachel grabs the other.
They start moving me physically, like animating a mannequin, and it’s so ridiculous that a sound escapes that's not quite a laugh, but close, like the rusty machinery of joy is creaking to life.
“There she is!” Mills shouts, voice cracking with delight. “I knew Morgan was in there somewhere under all that ice!”
I catch James's eye again. He’s leaning back, Cooper saying something requiring hand gestures, but James isn’t paying attention. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, something that looks dangerously like pride mixed with want.
The bass drops, and instead of fighting it, I let it in.
Let it vibrate through me. My hips find the beat first, muscle memory from before I locked myself in a fortress, when I was just a girl dancing in her room or with her friends, and before betrayal taught me that happiness was ammunition for others.
“Holy shit, she’s actually doing it,” Jen says, laughing, not mocking, and the distinction matters.
The movement feels foreign at first. My shoulders are locked, spine rigid, but soon I warm up and suddenly I’m moving and laughing. Not the sharp bark I use as punctuation, but something from deep in my chest that makes my face hurt from smiling.
“Our captain is human!” Sarah yells, throwing her arms around me in a move that six weeks ago would have ended with her untimely death.
Instead, I let her pull me deeper into their ridiculous circle. My body loosens incrementally—shoulders dropping, spine softening, that knot between my shoulder blades finally releasing—and then I'm spinning, arms raised, dizzy and young and impossibly light.
Suddenly, in the middle of this pack of my closest teammates, I realize what this is. I've helped mold them into a tough-as-nails hockey team, all steel and sharp edges. In return—in appreciation?—they're helping me rediscover something that I was sure was lost forever.
Me.