I try to move toward her, slipping as I pull myself up, lips parting to call out. When suddenly, a blur of black and white—then a sharpcracksears through my jaw.
Fourteen
Darcy
When I was ten, I went for a bike ride with some of the neighboring kids. My mom told me to be back in thirty minutes, but after a few laps around the block, the new neighbor girl, Brenna, invited me over for lemonade and the new NHL 12 PlayStation game. I didn’t own NHL 12 (I only had NHL 09 on the computer) so the lure of playing a newer version was too much to resist. I was so giddy about another female hockey player moving to my block that I didn’t think to check with my mom first. I just left my bike leaning against the back fence and darted into Brenna’s house like I had all the time in the world.
We spent hours playing, listening to “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol through the television speakers. She brawled with Tim Thomas and won. I played against the Tampa Bay Lightning and lost. I had never had so much fun with someone off the ice.
When the first wail of sirens pierced the walls of her house, my stomach instantly dropped.
I’d never told my mom where I was.
My heart pounded as I looked out the window, red and blue lights lighting up the neighborhood. I knew they were there for me. And even though I felt like I was going to vomit, I had no choice but to own up.
I waved to Brenna, grabbed my bike, and made my way to the closest car. The cops escorted me back to my parents.
I’ll never forget the way my dad clung to me when I arrived. His breath was ragged, face swollen and red from crying. I was struggling to breathe with how tight his trembling arms had squeezed me. It was like if he let go, I’d disappear again.
But my mom?
She didn’t say a word.
She just kissed my forehead with her cold, pale lips, then turned and walked to her room, shutting the door softly behind her. There was something painful in that moment. Worse than being yelled at, or grounded. It was the one and only time I ever saw my mom so upset that words ceased to exist.
Until now.
The crowd’s roar tunnels through the arena, rattling up the bench and vibrating in my legs. On the ice, refs and linesmen swarm the tangle of bodies—blowing whistles, yanking at limbs, peeling players off each other.
But my mom says nothing. Her eyes sweep the bench, a silent warning that somehow triumphs the sound of the arena.
Me? All I want to do is scream.
It’s no secret that fighting’s against the rules in women’s hockey. Unheard of? Not exactly. But when yourcaptainjoins in instead of stopping it, it’s more than just a bad look.
It’s a message.
That we’re undisciplined. That we’re emotional. That we’re everything critics say women’s hockey is. And it doesn’t just hurt the team. It drags the whole league down with it.
The penalties are one thing. But the headlines? The soundbites? The ammo it gives people already convinced we’re not worth watching?That’swhat sticks.
Maybe it cuts deeper because I’d give anything to still be out there. To play. To have one more chance at this life, and calm the storm. But instead I’m watching our so-called leader lose control in front of thousands. Charging at opponents and knocking them to the ice.
I can’t tear my eyes from the chaos as the pile of bodies finally starts to separate. Players scatter, gliding back to their respective benches.
But I just stare at one player in particular.
Peyton glides toward the penalty box, helmet in one hand, gloves tucked beneath her arm, blood pooling in her bruised jaw. Lena follows, frustrated, and behind her, Bailey—stuck serving Harlowe’s penalty since goalies can’t—looks just as pissed.
I rise to my feet, my gloved hands stinging against the frigid air as the blood inside me heats to a boil. My mom’s hand clamps down on my arm.
She doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head once.
I’m burning from the inside out. But I sit anyway.
The ref approaches the boards, raising his arm.
“Number 72, green—two minutes for roughing,” he says, nasally tone clipped. “Number 40, green—two minutes for roughing. Penalty will be served by number 9. Number 11—”
