“Clarke, Browne,” Coach says, glancing at Indie and me. Indie swallows hard, and I can see the anxiety building inside of her, brick by brick. “You’re together. Cunningham, Simmons, you too. Pioneer two-v-twos, let’s go.”
Faith Simmons, the first-year right-winger, doesn’t hesitate. She pulls her helmet over her French braids, posture snapping straight as she glides to the opposite corner of the ice. Indie, on the other hand, just swallows again.
I give her an assuring nod.
“Helmet on, Rose. Let’s do this.”
Indie pulls her helmet over her head. I know she’s got more in her than she lets on—otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. But damn, she’s so good at hiding it. Indie crosses the ice, finding her spot opposite Faith.
Bailey elbows me as we make our way to our corners.
“Your ass is grass, Cap,” she taunts, smacking the side of her helmet.
I grin. “Yeah. And you have allergies.”
“I need some goalies out here!” Coach calls. Zayda skates over to one of the goalposts without missing a beat, but Harlowe’s too busy vibing to the music blaring around the rink to hear.
Also, her eyelids are flipped inside out. Two plump pink lines of flesh sitting over river blue gems that have to be as dry as theSahara.
“Whoever picked the music today,” she starts, pausing to mime a chef’s kiss.
I roll my eyes, but before I can defendmyplaylist, Coach is already on her like a ref on a foul.
“Ayers, get your ass in line!”
Harlowe spins around, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “Yes, Coach.”
She fixes her eyelids and slides over to the other goalpost, getting into position just as Coach draws the whistle to her lips. The whistle blows, Hammie pushes off the ice, and I pass the puck to her. I skate hard, closing in on her as she stickhandles through the neutral zone, trying to break past me. When she passes the blue line, she spins around to attack, but I’m not making it easy. I’m on her like a shadow, granting her no room to shoot.
She takes a quick look for an opening, but I’m blocking her options. When she cuts to the left, I mirror every step ruthlessly, eyes narrowed, powder flying behind us.
I don’t mean to take my eyes off the ice. I almost never do. But in my periphery, I see a wave of red in the stands, and just for a second, I glance up.
Darcy’s eyes are on me, an intense, emerald stare watching with expectant anticipation, as if she already knows my nextmove but wants to see it for herself.Good. She’s watching.I look back to the drill, her gaze burning through the top of my skull as I skate.
Her snide voice echoes in my mind:This sport isn’t a joke, Captain.
A joke? I’ll show her that to me, it’s anything but.
The second whistle blows.
“Simmons, Browne!” Coach calls.
We spin around, skating toward the other end of the ice, while Indie and Faith push off, taking the puck from their end and continuing the drill. Indie dodges Faith as she bolts toward the goalpost.
I race to shield her, but Hammie slips in front of me, blocking me so that Faith can wrestle the puck away from Indie. I glance over to my teammate. She’s hesitating, handling the puck but hardly making an effort to get around.
Did they recruit the wrong Indigo Browne?
“Rose!”I call out, trying to get her moving. “Get in there!”
With that, she finally perks up, pushing off the ice to whip around Faith. She tries to pass, but it’s too soft, too slow. Hammie’s all over it. I can see her coming, ready to intercept, and I sprint to get in position. The puck squirts out, and I scoop it up, the wind slapping my face as I glide toward the goal. My stick is heavy in my hands, the worn tape grounding me as I push past.
Each stride I take is measured, each breath sharper, time slowing as my focus narrows to the tiny sliver of space between Harlowe’s legs. My eyes lock onto it, heart thudding against my chest. It’s the sweet spot. The moment where everything aligns, ready to shoot.
And then, thatfuckingvoice.
“Hey, Cap!” Darcy calls from the bench, that irritatingly assured tone rolling off my skin.
