She’s a storm out there, darting around a Hornets defender, tapping the puck to Indie, then cutting hard to the inside like she’s chasing her own pass. But its a calm kind of storm.
A contained hurricane.
A methodical tornado with only the ghost of Harrison Clarke making his appearance. The rest of it is her. Completely and entirely her.
And she’s dominating.
Even with Bailey in the penalty box, even with Brenna getting in the way, even with the wrist shot Peyton missed a few minutes ago that I know is still eating at her, it’s not even close.
We’re going to win this game, and there’s nothing the Hornets can do about it now.
Peyton’s head is up, hips shifting, shoulders squared as she glides. The momentum is all hers.
Until it isn’t.
It happens in a blink.
She pivots hard,toohard, and someone’s in her blind spot.
Not Indie.
Not a Hornets player.
Brenna.
Their bodies collide mid-turn. Full speed. Full contact.
The sound is awful. A gut-wrenching thud followed by the clatter of a stick. I push off the bench. My mom pushes off the bench. Gasps surge from the stands as Peyton stumbles back, catching herself.
Brenna’s not as fortunate. She drops to the ground, skidding backwards across the ice.
Everything stops.
The game, the sound, the breath in my lungs.
The rink goes quiet, frozen in time. All I can hear is the faint echo of Brenna’s body hitting the ice, still replaying in my head.
I don’t shake out of it until the medics lurch into motion, closing in on her, kneeling down, heads low, voices lower. One of them lifts her visor gently. Another checks her shoulder.
Peyton stands, frozen. She doesn’t move until Brenna starts to.
Brenna stirs, then sits up slowly.
The whole bench shifts with her.
The medics try to steady her, but she waves them off with a stiff shake of her head. Pushing off the ice, she glides toward the edge of the rink with uneven strides. Her face is pale, and dazed, but I recognize the determination in her eyes. No stretcher. No help.
She always believed in independence. I think that’s part of what bothered her so much about my disability.
A sigh of relief slips out of me as I watch her climb off, a new ref sliding out onto the ice.
“How the hell did that happen?” I ask, watching as they announce a ten-minute misconduct for Peyton. “Did she slip?”
The arena livens with a chorus of boos, though I can’t tell if it’s towards the ref’s call or Peyton. Peyton doesn’t flinch. She just turns and skates toward the box. Her shoulders stay high, her jaw locked in place. She collapses next to Bailey, who immediately starts frantically yapping.
My mom turns to face me, brows knitted.
”You think that was an accident?” she asks.
