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Iris

T he rink lay still, the world outside a blur of summer heat and noise. I glided onto the ice, feeling the familiar chill seep into my skin. The soft hum of the arena lights buzzed above me, but all I heard was the sharp, rhythmic sound of my blades carving through the surface.

I pushed off hard, launching into a series of drills I’d perfected over countless early mornings. Tight turns, quick stops. Each motion felt fluid, like poetry in motion—my body moving in sync with every thought racing through my mind.

I wove between imaginary defenders, my stick low to the ice as I faked left and darted right. My heart pounded with adrenaline; the thrill of movement kept me focused. With every stride, doubt slipped away like mist under the sun.

“Come on, Evans,” I muttered to myself as I picked up speed. “No one else is out here.”

The cold air bit at my cheeks while sweat formed at my brow. Perfection thrived in these quiet moments—before anyone arrived, before distractions crept in. Just me and this vast expanse of white.

With each lap around the rink, I reminded myself why I pushed so hard. Two weeks until that announcement loomed over me like a storm cloud, heavy with possibility and pressure. The women’s national team selection would change everything; it hovered at the edges of my thoughts.

Another lap completed; another drill executed flawlessly. I slowed down, catching my breath as I circled back toward center ice.

I dropped into a low stance and let my stick rest against the cool surface while I inhaled deeply. The smell of fresh ice filled my lungs—the scent that meant opportunity and hope.

A sound broke through—skates echoing off the concrete walls—and brought me back to reality. My heart raced again; teammates would soon fill this empty space with chatter and laughter.

“Just one more,” I whispered to myself before taking off again, focusing on perfecting that last drill before anyone else arrived.

The skates whistled beneath me as I slid forward once more—a final push toward something greater than just a spot on a team; it was about proving that all this effort meant something.

As I finished another lap, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running on autopilot. Sure, Coach had me pegged as the rising star, and the accolades came pouring in with each game. A sophomore heading into junior year, I was the one everyone expected to shine.

Coach’s favorite.

The future of Team USA.

The pressure hung heavy around my shoulders, a weight that never fully settled. It wasn’t just about winning; it was about maintaining an image—doing everything right both on and off the rink.

Another drill completed flawlessly; I stopped to catch my breath, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my glove. My heart raced not from exertion but from something deeper—a faint ache I tried to ignore.

When was the last time hockey felt like mine? Not something polished or practiced under watchful eyes, but raw and free? It had been ages since those moments where joy pulsed through me like electricity instead of obligation.

I glanced up as laughter and chatter broke the silence of the rink. A group of my teammates stepped through the doors, their voices echoing against the walls. But one voice cut through the others, low and rough.

“Did you hear about the new trainer?” a girl said, her tone laced with curiosity.

“Yeah! Callahan’s own son,” another replied, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

“No way,” someone chimed in. “I heard he punched a ref.”

My heart sank at that name—Knox Callahan. I froze, my stick resting against the ice, ears tuned to their conversation.

“I heard he slept with the ref’s wife and then punched the ref,” another teammate added, giggles following her words.

The laughter faded into whispers as they shared more stories about Knox Callahan.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was about to get messy.

The guy was notorious—his reputation flared like a wildfire among hockey circles.

He’d been part of discussions for years; some loved him, some loathed him. There was no in between.

“Honestly, I can’t believe they brought him in,” one of them said. “Doesn’t Coach know what he’s like?”

“Maybe that’s why,” another suggested with a smirk. “You know how Coach loves a challenge. I mean, it is his son.”

"I heard he had to," a third chimed in. "After the punch during the USA game, the NHL needed to get him in line."

The sound of skates scraping on ice pulled me back to reality as more teammates arrived. They chatted about practice plans and game strategies, but Knox lingered at the edge of my thoughts like an unwelcome guest.

“Hey Iris!” one shouted over to me, breaking my reverie. “Ready for practice?”

I forced a smile, shoving aside my unease about Knox Callahan joining our team dynamic. If it was even true. Which I doubted. Coach Callahan always put the game first. I doubted that was going to change. “Always.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

I turned as more players filtered onto the ice, laughter mingling with the sound of skates. The chatter picked up as teammates filled in around me, and I felt a rush of energy sweep through the group. The familiar faces eased my earlier tension, but a sense of anticipation crackled in the air.

Coach Callahan strode onto the ice, his presence commanding attention.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a faded Crestwood jacket over his typical black workout gear.

His hair, once a dark chestnut, had started to gray at the temples—a testament to years spent shaping us into competitive athletes.

He held his whistle like a sword, ready to lead us into battle.

“Gather ‘round!” he called out, voice booming over the hum of conversation. The team quickly formed a loose circle at center ice.

“Most of you know who I am,” he began with a nod, but I could see how he glanced at me before continuing. “But I’m here today to introduce someone who will be assisting during our off-season training.”

A ripple of whispers passed through the group, nerves thrumming beneath our excitement.

“Knox Callahan,” Coach announced, “will be joining us for preparations leading up to the national team announcement and our annual friendly with Crestwood’s sister school in Canada.”

The words hung heavy in the air. A few teammates exchanged glances; others stifled nervous laughter. Everyone knew Knox’s name. The infamous incident—the punch that had sent shockwaves through Team USA—was etched into hockey history like a scar.

I could almost hear the thoughts racing around me: Wasn’t he supposed to be in exile after that? Would this bring bad luck? Knox Callahan—the player who’d become synonymous with disgrace—would be on our ice now.

A girl in front leaned over to whisper, “Isn’t he banned from anything hockey related?”

“Guess not anymore,” someone else muttered under her breath.

Coach Callahan’s gaze swept over us, and the room fell silent, tension thick enough to cut. He cleared his throat. “Look,” he began, his voice steady but edged with an urgency I recognized. “I know there’s a lot of chatter about Knox joining us. Let’s address it.”

I exchanged glances with my teammates. Whispers flitted through the group like a restless breeze.

“Knox made mistakes—big ones,” he continued.

“Trust me—I wasn't happy with what happened.

And quite frankly, I'm not sure I agree with him being here. But USA Hockey and the NHL believe he's done a lot for this sport and for our country. The NHL saw fit to give him this olive branch after everything he’s done. You all know what he achieved before that incident.”

A murmur ran through the circle; some nodded, while others frowned.

“Believe me,” he added, raising his hand for silence, “this isn’t just about his past. This is an opportunity for us to learn from someone who has faced adversity head-on and still emerged on top.”

“Adversity?” I scoffed under my breath, loud enough for the girl next to me to hear. “More like a disaster.”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she didn’t argue.

“Now,” he pressed on, undeterred by my outburst, “I expect you all to treat Knox with respect as he assists me with coaching and training.” He locked eyes with me for a moment—like he could sense my frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Remember,” he continued, “everyone deserves a second chance if they’re willing to put in the work. ”

The thought twisted in my gut as I crossed my arms over my chest. A second chance? After what Knox had pulled? He didn’t deserve it—not when people like me worked hard every single day without scandal hanging over our heads.

“Knox will lead drills and share his insights,” he finished, casting another glance toward him before turning back to us. “Let’s keep our focus on hockey.”

A low groan echoed from one of the girls behind me. She whispered, “What insights can he share besides how not to get banned?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at that as unease settled into my bones like ice water. We had two weeks until the announcement—a chance to prove ourselves—and now we had Knox Callahan lurking around like a storm cloud threatening to rain on our parade.

“We’ll be focusing on building our skills together as we head into these crucial games.” His gaze sharpened as it swept across us all. “We can’t afford distractions. This is about coming together as a team. Let's get started."

The weight of his words settled over me like thick fog—Knox Callahan’s shadow loomed larger than ever before.

Knox stepped onto the ice, and I felt my heart quicken.

The moment he glided across the surface, he filled the space like a storm cloud ready to burst. Bigger than I expected—thicker, with that ex-enforcer build that screamed muscle and power.

He wore a dark hoodie that hugged his shoulders, accentuating every inch of his frame as he moved with an easy confidence.