Page 12

11

Lennon

T here’s nothing like the smell of fresh ice. The air is cool against my face as I glide over to the net, five of my teammates in tow. It’s our third game of the season, and the energy is high, even more so because of who we’re playing.

“Let’s get another win, alright?” Aubrey looks purposefully at each of us gathered in our small circle. She, Austen, and Jordyn make up our first line, and Charlotte and Maria are the starting defensemen for today. “Remington may think because they knocked us out of the tournament last year that it’s going to be an easy win for them.” That game flashes through my head, like it does most nights, and I tap my stick against the ice in a steady rhythm to tether me to the present. “But remember, we kicked their asses over and over again last season before the tournament. And we can do it again today.”

“We got this,” Austen pipes in, putting her glove in the center of the circle. Everyone follows suit, and Aubrey counts, “One, two, three,” before we all yell, “Huskies!”

Each of my teammates taps my helmet before skating toward center ice. I run my stick along the crease four times, back and forth, methodically syncing my breathing with the movement. The crowd that’s gathered in the arena to watch this rivalry game today fades into my peripheral as I push aside the noise.

Everything narrows into pinpoint focus as the referee skates forward for the face-off. With a drop of the puck, the game is off.

Right from the start, it’s the most aggressive game we’ve had so far this season. The Redhawks draw three penalties out of us, but we draw two on them in return.

There’s a lot of trash talk being thrown around between the lines, which isn’t unusual for our two schools. I catch brief glimpses of it, but for the most part, being the goalie, you keep out of the fray.

But it doesn’t stop their star forward, Sydney, from chirping me after she scores their third goal of the game in the second period.

“See someone hasn’t stepped up since last year,” she jeers and skates off toward their bench. I want to scream at her, to leave the crease and charge over there, but I try to keep a level head. She’s just trying to psych me out. It happens.

But fuck, it’s hard to shake off as flashbacks from last season hit me one after another, and Remington spends more time on offense than we do. Shot after shot comes toward me. Elbows are flying between players, and the refs are letting a lot slide. They know the history between the teams. Unless it’s too obvious that it can’t be ignored, they’re not calling a lot of the roughness happening.

A whistle blows, and Coach calls a timeout. As I approach the bench, Grace is pulling her helmet on and grabbing her stick.

I shoot her a questioning look as she grimaces. What the?—

“Kilcrease, you’re out for this one,” Coach says.

My stomach drops, and I blink back hot tears that suddenly spring to my eyes, threatening to break free. “I know I’ve been off, but it’s only the second period?—”

She levels me with a look that has me swallowing any further arguments.

“I’m sorry,” Grace murmurs as she steps onto the ice.

I catch her eye and soften when I see the apprehension there. There are less than a handful of times when she has ever stepped in for me mid-game. “Don’t be,” I mutter. “Go get ‘em.”

She skates toward the net and starts carving up the ice the way she likes it, and I hang my head as I step off.

Coach Maver pats my shoulder. “Head on back to the locker room. Coach Holloway will take you.”

Like a babysitter? Fucking hell. I purse my lips and head down the tunnel, ignoring the sympathetic looks of my teammates. I cost them three goals. They should be happy Grace is stepping in.

Humiliation and disappointment fuel a newly growing sense of anger, and by the time I make it into the locker room, I can’t stop myself. Without thinking, I raise my stick above my head and smash it down onto one of the benches. It reverberates in my gloved hands but doesn’t break. With a frustrated grunt, I smash it a second, then third time before it snaps in half.

I toss it to the floor and shake off my gloves and mask, letting them join the pile. My eyes burn and skin itches beneath my pads. The air in here is heavy, making each breath come harder and harder.

I claw at the neck of my jersey, needing it loose, when a deep voice startles me. “That make you feel better?”

Fuck, I forgot he followed me. A glance toward the entrance to the room reveals Coach Holloway standing with his hands in his pockets, watching me with an impassive expression.

“No,” I grit out. “Nothing’s going to make me feel better right now except being alone .” Hopefully he takes the hint and heads back to the bench with the rest of the team.

“Do you understand why I had you pulled?”

I whip around. “You what ?”

“Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Frustration boils my blood. “Why did you pull me? I know I should’ve stopped that last one but?—”

“You should’ve stopped all three,” he says casually, and it only fuels my irritation. “The first one was tricky because of the screen, so I’ll give that one to you. But the other two, they were mistakes. Costly ones.”

“So you had me pulled to punish me?”

“It’s not a punishment.”

My legs buckle, and I slump onto the bench, letting my head hang as I look at my hands. “It feels like it.”

I hear footsteps as Coach Holloway approaches, and the tips of his sneakers enter my line of vision. They’re navy blue, the same color as my goalie pads. He’s dressed casually for it being a game day. Typically, the coaches are in dress pants, suit jackets, button-up shirts, that sort of deal. Sharp, nice, professional.

Not him. He’s in black joggers and a grey Haulton Hockey sweatshirt it looks like he got from the university store. His hair is styled and gelled back though, like he knew he still needed to look put-together even if he was dressing casually.

“You were psyching yourself out.” His deep voice reverberates against the lockers and down my spine. “I could sense your rising frustration and panic after that last goal all the way by the bench. Do you think your opponents couldn’t sense it? It was about to be sharks circling in the water.”

I don’t have an argument to spit back. He’s right.

I hate it.

“I’d rather pull you before it got any worse for you. We have things to work on. That’s fine. Just take a breath.”

It all sounds so matter of fact. I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. “I don’t want to take a breath. I want to play.”

He sighs, the sound full of annoyance. “Lennon, it’s not the end of the world. Brush it off.”

“It’s not the end of the world, but it’s important, and I’m fucking it up.”

“Yes, but you’re not the only one out there playing.” I glare at his instant agreement that I’m messing up, but he simply shrugs like what did you expect?

“I’m not, but I shouldn’t be making mistakes like that. I know you don’t really know me, but I’m reliable. I’m good .” My voice breaks, and I stare up at the ceiling, willing the emotions rising to draw back. “I don’t want to let my team down.”

Luke’s quiet for a moment, as if at a loss. “Why are you putting so much pressure on yourself? It’s only the third game of the season. We got months ahead of us.” He says that last sentence with a note of dread that almost makes me laugh.

Almost .

“You wouldn’t get it,” I mutter, and then wonder if that’s true. Yes, Luke Holloway is a winner. One of the greatest in his generation. But surely he’s had his fair share of losses. Right?

“Try me,” he says.

I push my hands across my forehead, smoothing back the flyaways that escaped from my ponytail. With a heavy sigh, I begin, “I’m not sure if Coach told you when you were hired, but we made it to the Frozen Four Championship game last year.” He nods. “It’s the first time the women’s team has made it that far, and we thought we could win. We thought it was our year.”

It was looking like it would be. We were unstoppable. Our season had the highest record in our school’s history, and although we were going up against the Redhawks, our biggest rival, we had already beaten them four times throughout the season.

“We were tied heading into the final two minutes of the game,” I explain. “We had been up two to one since the end of the first, but they scored on a power play at the start of the third. It rattled me a bit, but I thought I could keep it together.” I swallow thickly. “I trusted that the team could score, too. Austen had been on fire that night and…I don’t know. They just got their opportunity first.”

I replay those final moments in my head so often they’ve almost become blurry. Like a VHS tape that’s been rewound one too many times.

“It was a clean breakaway,” I say, voice straining. “Two-on-one, but I’d stopped a few others earlier in the game. I thought I’d stop this one, too. But—God, she didn’t even pass it. She took the shot. Went sailing right over my shoulder. Kinda like that last one today…”

Coach listens quietly, patiently, with a look of understanding in his eyes that I’ve never seen from him before.

“I should’ve stopped it. It was a clean shot. No tip, no redirect. I should’ve fucking stopped it.” Bitterness and self-loathing mix in my chest and squeeze my heart to the point of pain.

But it lessens slightly when he chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve had a few of those in my time.” I look up at him, and he leans back against the metal lockers. “Those ones are the ones that stick with you.”

“Do you still replay them in your head?”

“All the time.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. When you care about your performance, your team, it’s hard not to.”

I agree, but… “I’m just surprised I guess that after all this time, you’d still think about those moments.” Does that mean that game is going to haunt me for years to come?

“ All this time ?” He sounds disgusted. “You act like I’m some old man talking about his glory days. I’ve only been retired a few years.”

Despite everything, a laugh works its way past my lips. “You’re not old.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to my back.”

I’m momentarily stunned. “Was that a joke, Coach Holloway?”

He smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”

I think I’d like to, though.