I drop my bag on the floor and fold my arms over my chest as I take in the scene.
“Well, Leah,” I begin, tilting my head to examine my favoriteLittle Mermaidpillow now coated in things I don’t even want to think about. “I’m guessing you’re not here for a family reunion.”
Chapter Two
Skye
There’s nothing more satisfying than the sound of a blade cutting deep.
The ice under my skates holds me steady as I shoot puck after puck toward the empty net in front of me. That’s my biggest downfall. Empty net shots.
It’s like being asked an open-ended question on the spot. “What do you do for work?” and the ability to form words goes right out the window.
Same with seeing an empty net. It’s right there, wide open, but the pressure of that shot is enough to make your head explode. Even the biggest names in the NHL miss open net shots. But I can’t think about that when the gold medal is on the line, and my name is tied to it.
With the Olympic Games right around the corner, I need to get as much practice as I can. I’m not going into the biggest games of my life unprepared. Not that I have much to work on, I’m one of the top players in women’s hockey. But I also know that I’m not perfect, and with certain people breathing down my neck about not making any mistakes, on or off the ice, I’m determined to perfect every part of my game.
So, I’m here practicing the day before I leave for the Olympics. Compartmentalizing. Nothing but me and the net. Everything else is on the back burner.
The rink smells sharper today; ice shavings and steel. Cold enough to sting my lungs.
Underneath it, the thick scent of sweat and worn leather. It smells like work. Like everything it took to get me here.
I grip my stick harder, eyes forward, then draw it across the ice, catching the puck and firing it at the net.
Shot one.
Score.
Shoot again.
Score.
Again.
Miss.
Fuck.
Go again.
And again.
Usually, I’m blasting music from Harley Poe or Badflower, but today I need peace and quiet. Honestly, I should have the sound of a cheering crowd playing, so it feels a bit more realistic, but when it’s just me and the ice, I can do whatever I want.
Maybe that’s why I prefer to practice stuff like this on my own. It’s not like I’ll have anyone in my corner cheering me on.
Aside from my team, of course, but they only look at me as their team captain.
Score.
Score.
Miss.
Fuck.
“Skye,” a commanding voice echoes to my right, and I halt, shooting shaved ice into the air near the goal.
