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Lennon

T he locker room is eerily silent. Only the sound of tape being wrapped around sticks and laces being tightened on skates fill the tense atmosphere.

Grace sits back in her locker next me, eyes closed, headphones on, getting locked in. Out of all of us, she should be the least nervous since she likely won’t even touch the ice for this game. But who knows what might happen. She has to be ready just in case.

I brace my elbows on my knees and pick at the nail polish I applied only last night as we sat in our hotel rooms. It’s the same shade of powder blue as our jerseys. So vastly different from the fiery-red jerseys of our opponents today.

It’s another Frozen Four showdown of us versus the Remington Redhawks. Although, unlike last year, we aren’t facing each other in the championship game. No, today we’re both fighting to secure our spot in that game.

It’s what we’ve been preparing for all season. This weekend, this tournament, the very strong possibility we’d be facing them again. But now it’s here, and I have to trust in the training and work I’ve put in the last seven months. I have to trust in my team.

Our three coaches walk in the room and instantly all eyes are on them. Coach Maver is in a navy-blue pantsuit, while Coach Packley wears a similar one in dark gray. But it takes everything in me to keep a neutral expression as Coach Holloway steps beside them in black pants that look like they were tailored just for him. They hug his muscular thighs just right and taper to show off shiny black dress shoes. On top, he’s wearing a white button up and light blue tie, with that stupidly expensive watch of his catching the lights.

He looks so devastatingly handsome, and by the tilt of his chin and line of his shoulders, you feel the confidence radiating off of him. The other girls seem to be feeling it too because some of the anxiety in the air dampens.

“Ladies,” Coach Maver says, stepping to the center of the lockers. “You should all be extremely proud of the work you put in to get here today. I know there were likely days where you questioned why you continue to play this beautiful but exhausting sport. You’re all students, with responsibilities and lives outside of the rink. But you continued to show up, to put in the work, and it’s brought you here today.”

Coach Maver has the focus of every single one of us right now.

“For those who were on this team last year, you might be sitting here focusing on old rivalries and scores and the what if’s of the past.” Her eyes pass over me, and I feel her words land straight to my gut. “But today, you put those thoughts aside. You push it down, refocus on the now, and keep your eyes ahead of you. Not behind.”

“We have two games to reach our final goal, but play today as if there’s only one. Because right now, only today matters. What you are about to do for the next sixty minutes on that ice matters. Keep your wits about you. Do not let them bait you. Do not let them rattle you. I know that we can beat them. We’ve done it before, and we can do it again.”

The buzz in the room becomes palpable as everything Coach says sinks in for the team. Hunched shoulders turn into straightened spines, and worry lines turn into hardened resolution.

She claps her hands once and says, “Now get out there, and let’s get ourselves a fucking win.”

Cheers roar from around the locker room, the previous uncertainty replaced by vigorous determination. My own chest swells with it, and I slap Grace’s thigh excitedly. She squeezes mine back and gives me a broad smile.

“You got this today, alright? I know you do.”

“Thank you,” I say, throat tightening.

There’s a flurry of excitement now in the room as everyone shrugs on their jerseys and finishes lacing up their skates. Music starts blaring and amidst the chaos, it’s his eyes I search for.

One last look. One last nod of encouragement from the person who has helped me get here today.

When I find Luke, he’s already looking at me. His dark eyes hold such warmth, such belief in me, that it almost chokes me. His chin dips in the subtlest of nods.

Trust yourself , he mouths. I believe in you.

Thank you, I mouth back. For everything.

His chest rises and mine mirrors it, us taking a deep breath together, before he ducks his head and leaves. The moment he’s out of sight feels like a loss, but I know he’ll be here every step of the way with me this weekend.

I turn to grab my jersey off the hook behind me when I catch Grace staring at me funny. Her eyes are narrowed, and she scans my face as if it’s some sort of puzzle she’s trying to solve. A ping of anxiety rings in the back of my head.

She looks back toward where Luke was just standing, and I feel my face drop. I do my best to keep my shoulders relaxed and movements steady as I pull my jersey over my head. My braid gets caught, and I yank it out and lay it over my shoulder.

I don’t want to ask, don’t want to give her the opportunity to ask something that I can’t give her an honest answer to, but I can’t help it. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She chews on her lips, contemplating something, before she looks away and shakes her head. “Nothing.” She grabs her stick and rises. “Let’s get out there.”

The trash talking begins the moment the puck is dropped. The surreal moment of being in the tournament, feeling the buzz of the crowd, and taking a moment for the anthem is wiped away in a blink.

Austen wins the faceoff, and I get a few moments of quiet at my end of the ice. The starters get two shots back to back, but neither is successful. Remington gains possession and pushes it down the ice quickly. Already, I can tell this is going to be a fast-paced game.

Hopefully the conditioning the rest of the team has been putting in will keep their legs beneath them.

Dashes of red flash across my vision as Remington sets up their offense. They send one of their tallest girls down right in front of the crease, and Maria comes in to try to help defend. I stay low and bop behind the two of them, trying to always maintain a line of vision on the puck.

Two of our players get drawn in on one of theirs, and a quick pass leaves their left wing wide open. She shoots the moment the puck crosses in front of her, but I was ready too. It’s a clean shot heading right to my left, and I throw my entire body to that side, and the puck ricochets off my pads.

The crowd and the Huskies bench roar at the block, but I don’t let it distract me. Not when I have a rebound to anticipate. And when it comes off the skater they put right in front of the net, I’m ready for it too. I scoop the shot with my glove and stop the play.

I can hear Luke’s voice in my head. You can control the pace of the game. It’s something he drilled into me over and over this past season. It’s helpful to keep a level head and my natural inclination toward feeding the frenzy at bay.

One of the refs glides over to take the puck from me to reset. It allows everyone a collective breath, and I spare the quickest of glances toward the bench. My eyes immediately find his, and he gives me a small smile. That little sign of approval just adds fuel to my fire.

It’s a nasty, aggressive first period, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the buzzer sounds. The walk to the locker room is filled with fevered words of anger directed toward Remington. Charlotte is holding her left wrist gingerly, but anytime one of the coaches looks in her direction, she drops it.

This late in the season, many of us are already banged up quite a bit and pushing through the pain. But the first twenty minutes doesn’t seem to have done a lot of those repressed injuries well as I spy more than a handful of my teammates down pain relievers the moment they step into the locker room.

Coach Maver storms in, forehead creased with a frown. “You should all feel very lucky that we made it out of that period 0–0 and be thanking your goalie for that.”

My cheeks heat as the attention shifts to me momentarily. I spray water down the back of my neck to distract myself.

“Letting them have sixteen shots on goal already? Four of those during power plays? I said I don’t want stupid penalties, and yet a cross checking and tripping for you two?” She glares at Austen and Aubrey. Austen at least has the right frame of mind to look remorseful, but Aubrey’s eyes blaze.

“You should hear the shit they’re saying?—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Coach Maver states. “It doesn’t fucking matter. Tune it out. They want you to get angry. You especially.” She points her finger at Aubrey, and her shoulders rise to her ears. “They know they have a strong power play, so they want to get in that position. Do. Not. Let. Them.”

Aubrey opens her mouth to argue, but one look from Coach Maver has her shutting up.

“Kilcrease had to work overtime that period to compensate for those penalties, along with the rest of your teammates who are already out there getting banged up and exhausted, and then have to play a man down. I want that to stop in this next twenty, understood?”

A collective, “Yes, Coach,” rings out from the team.

With that, she leaves and small talk rises around the room until it’s time to get back out there. I keep any interaction to a minimum, wanting to keep my head in the game. I don’t care that Aubrey and Austen took penalties. I don’t even care that they got sixteen shots on goal.

I just care about every single opportunity I have to maintain their score of zero and being a backbone out there for the team. Even Luke fades into my periphery as I pass him in the tunnel back to the ice. He doesn’t approach, knowing I’ve sunk deep into the place I need to be in to perform, in a way that only another goalie would understand.

We finally get a breakthrough a few minutes into the second period. One of Remington’s players smashes Jordyn into the boards when she didn’t even touch the puck in the entire possession and takes a penalty for unnecessary roughness.

It gives me a moment to catch my breath at the other end of the ice after they were in the zone for almost two minutes straight.

On the power play, Austen is able to score and bring us up 1–0. The crowd and bench both erupt, and I slam my own stick on the ice in celebration. The line on the ice pile on her, their smiles are magnified on the screens above.

It’s only one, but it’s the first goal of the game and a major momentum shift for us.

We win the face-off but quickly turn the puck over. Remington once again gets in the zone, and I try to block out the chirping in front of the net between their player and Maria, but it’s growing increasingly loud. Their elbows start digging a little harder into one another, blades scraping, and it might not be long until it comes to blows.

In fact, looking around, it looks like there’s a possibility of a fight almost everywhere you look. So many anger-flushed cheeks and scathing looks being tossed around as a whistle blows when the puck goes up into the netting.

Remington’s captain engages with Charlotte, and it takes me by surprise to see even her spitting something back fiercely. Play resumes and Charlotte gets possession and scoops it to the other end of the ice, wrapping around the boards as the lines switch. Our first line comes back onto the ice and instantly Aubrey gets into the mix, trying to get the puck, but Remington grabs it.

The Remington first liner accelerates down the ice as Aubrey battles with her the whole way. Their sticks slap against each other, trying to gain possession. The puck skitters along with them and as they show no signs of slowing down, I fall back in the crease a little bit.

I wait, I watch, anticipation building as neither backs down. I can see the sneer on Aubrey’s face, and while I can’t hear them, the Remington player’s mouth moves with heated words.

My knees drop, thighs burning with the lowered stance as I anticipate a shot. They get closer and closer, and I wait for the shot to come, but it doesn’t. The puck gets completely lost.

Where did it?—

I don’t feel the impact right away. It’s almost like I’m suspended in air, light as a feather, for a few glorious moments before realization hits. I’m not on my feet anymore. I’m not even in the crease anymore.

No.

I’m not in position at all.

There’s a split-second moment of awareness that flashes that I’m about to slam into the boards, propelled by the direct hit from my own teammate and the other player. But the moment the impact hits, everything goes dark.