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CHAPTER ONE
Ally
The second I step out of the Uber, I feel it.
A sharp tug at my waist.
I try to move forward, but I can’t. Something is holding me back.
For a second, I have no idea what’s happening. Did I get lassoed? Mugged? Pulled into another dimension?
Nope. My dress is stuck in the car door.
The Uber driver, blissfully unaware, hits the gas.
“WAIT! STOP?—”
The tires let out a tiny, guilty squeak as the car jerks to a stop.
For a second, everything is still.
Then, with the grace of a newborn deer, I yank my dress free with a muted shriek, and step back like nothing happened.
The Uber driver glances in the rearview mirror, looking mildly horrified.
I give a tight, no-you-didn’t-almost-drag-me-to-my-death smile and wave a frantic PLEASE GO motion.
The car peels away like it can’t escape fast enough.
I stand there, panting, trying to will my soul back into my body.
Then, as if the universe is in on the joke, I glance up and lock eyes with the grinning macaw on the Minnesota Marauders’ banner.
The bird beams down at me like it just watched the whole thing.
Its bright red feathers fan out in streaks of blue, yellow, and green, its wings stretched wide in a mocking, feathered high-five to my humiliation.
Fantastic.
The banner flutters in the breeze, a snapping sound punctuating the otherwise quiet morning.
The image feels almost ridiculous against the weight pressing in my chest—a brightly colored bird ushering me into a place that holds so much personal history.
The contrast is almost funny. Almost.
I inhale deeply, smoothing my dress like that will somehow iron out the embarrassment. Then, grabbing my purse that fell to the pavement, I throw the strap over my shoulder and march forward like I totally meant for all that to happen.
The tall trees along the parking lot are ablaze with autumn colors, golden yellows, deep oranges, and fiery reds.
The city of Minneapolis rises in the distance beyond the rink. The jagged skyline reflects the dim light of the overcast day, the Mississippi River winding through the city like a shimmering ribbon.
This is where I’m meant to be.
This town, this rink, this life; each of them are pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to put back together.
Despite briefly being taken hostage by my own clothing, I take a step forward.
Coming home feels strange, even a little bittersweet.
But after years away I’m finally ready to dig into my roots while also starting fresh as the sports medicine fellow for my favorite team.
The Marauders aren’t just a hockey team to me; they’re a piece of my history here as a Minnesotan.
Hockey has always been part of my life.
I can still feel the sensation of skates strapped tight around my ankles and the satisfying clink of a puck meeting the sweet spot of my stick.
My brother, Jesse, was always there, guiding me, challenging me, showing me how to wield the sport like a weapon and an art form.
But things changed.
Jesse’s charm turned to arrogance, his guidance into condescension. His careless treatment of people, especially women, carved a rift between us that feels insurmountable.
I can almost hear his voice now, smooth but cutting, and my stomach twists with a mixture of regret and disappointment.
My dad remains my one anchor to family.
I imagine him in the stands, the scent of his aftershave mixed with buttered popcorn. His booming cheers echo in my memory, his unwavering support has been a comfort I’ve leaned on my entire life.
And then there’s my mom.
My throat tightens as I think about her absence, the space she left behind impossible to fill.
Snapping out of my daydream, I realize I’ve been standing outside for too long and step into the rink.
The icy air envelopes me instantly, sharp and invigorating against my skin, drawing goosebumps along my arms beneath my jacket.
The large entryway greets me with a soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Off to one side, the skate rental counter is a cheerful hub of activity, its cubbies filled with silver blades dulled from endless laps around the rink.
A team banner behind the counter, painted in the bold blue and gold of the Marauders, feels like a welcome home sign.
Wooden benches line the walls, their surfaces worn smooth from generations of skaters sitting to tie laces. I reach out and trail my fingers over one as I walk past, feeling the scratched wood beneath my fingertips.
An attendant steps out in front of me, clipboard in hand, breaking my reverie.
His brow furrows as he glances up, his voice steady but firm. “Sorry, the rink’s closed for local practice today.”
I dig into my pocket, pulling out my badge. “I’m with the Minnesota Marauders. I’m the new team doctor,” I say, keeping my tone light but confident. The badge feels cool in my hand.
He studies it briefly before his expression softens, nodding and stepping aside. “Welcome aboard, Miss Perry. Head on in.”
“Thank you,” I reply, a smile playing on my lips as I continue down the corridor. My nerves bubble beneath the surface, but I tamp them down.
This is my chance. My dream. All I have to do is make the most of it.
That is, if I can survive working under Dr. Martins.
The old curmudgeon has barely begun overseeing my fellowship, and he’s already made it clear this isn’t going to be a walk in the park.
Even before my official start, he’s been snapping at me for trivial things and calling at all hours with reminders or nitpicks.
I can’t believe he’s still working at his age; he’s got to be close to retirement.
I know Dr. Martins isn’t going to make this easy, but I’ve never shied away from hard work. I’ll prove myself, no matter how tough he makes it.
Before heading deeper into the rink, I duck into the bathroom, needing a quick moment to collect myself.
I grip the faucet handles as I try to steady myself while looking into the mirror.
I smooth stray hairs from my forehead as I adjust my jacket collar. My long, blonde hair always has a mind of its own and today is no different.
Leaning in closer, I check for smudged mascara or any other stray smudges on my face. “You’ve got this,” I murmur.
My reflection stares back, eyes sharp and steady, and the smell of my vanilla-scented chapstick wafts faintly as I reapply it.
With a deep breath, I leave the bathroom and head toward the doors leading to the ice. The echoes of practice grow louder.
The moment I step into the rink proper, the cold air stings my cheeks in the best way.
Skates carve clean lines across the rink, their smooth precision amplified by the occasional clatter of pucks slamming into boards.
The ice is alive under the players’ movements.
I lean against the barrier, the cool surface pressing against my palms as I watch the practice game unfold.
The familiar cadence of the game begins to work its magic, reminding me of what I’ve always loved about hockey.
This is why I’m here—why I’ve worked so hard to get here.
My dad’s been rooting for me every step of the way, and I can’t wait to call him later to tell him I nailed this job.