Down the row, someone was arguing with Ivan about some call from last season. Clarke shot back a comment that made the kid duck his head. None of them were watching me like my mere presence on the team was a problem.
These guys were my teammates. And for the first time since I showed up, the old doubtful voice that said I didn’t belong had nothing to work with.
Three sharp whistle blasts sounded from the tunnel cutting through the locker room noise, and I pulled on my helmet, the chinstrap clicking into place. Anticipation coiled in my gut. Not panic. Something cleaner.
I followed Clarke and the others down the tunnel, my skates biting into the rubber matting, and when we hit the ice, the cold air slapped my face.
Two hours later, I was wrecked. The pace had been faster than anything at Ridge Cross; every training drill was a fight to keep my legs under me, and my shoulders were a mess of fresh bruising. I dropped onto the bench outside my stall, sweat still running into my eyes, and fished my phone out of my bag before my gloves were even fully off.
My phone screen lit up to show that I had three texts waiting.
First message: a photo of Karter’s new dorm room at Ridge Cross. He had a single room this year. The bed was made with the corners tucked tight, and I snorted because he’d done it for the picture.
Perez sent the second one. His face grinning, thumbs up, the caption reading:The new freshmen keep asking about you. You’re a legend now.
The third was just Karter again:Miss you already.
Clarke walked past, working the laces on his wrist guards. “You still sitting there, Zotov? Practice was done twenty minutes ago.”
“Hey, Clarke?”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder like I was already wasting his time.
“Take a picture of me real quick.” I held up the phone.
Clarke let out a long breath and snatched it from my hand. “Sending this to a girl back home?”
For half a second I tasted the instinct to deflect or lie. But Clarke was standing there, impatient as hell, with my phone in his hand, and I was too tired to hide this part of me.
“Nah, my boyfriend,” I said.
Clarke’s thumb paused over the screen. Not a flinch. More like he was processing whether I’d said something worth reacting to. Then he tapped the camera open. “Long distance?”
“Yeah. He’s still at college.”
“That sucks.” He backed up a step and aimed the phone at me. “Does he care if you look like shit?”
“He’s seen worse.”
“Alright. Look tough then.”
“I always look tough.”
Clarke snorted. “Every rookie thinks that until Ivan puts them through the boards.” He snapped the photo. “Ivan’s been here six years. He’ll test you tomorrow.”
“Let him.”
“Big talk, kid,” Clarke tossed the phone back, and I caught it against my chest. “Don’t ask me again. I’m not your personal photographer.”
“Noted.”
He walked off, already yelling at someone about leaving tape on the floor. I looked down at the photo. The scar on my jaw was still there, but it didn’t look so pissed off under the bright lights of the locker room. My thumb hovered over my phone.
Two words:Made it.
And then I hit send.
The typing bubble appeared immediately. A second later, Karter’s reply popped up. A single red heart emoji, followed by:I’m so proud of you. Always.
