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I inhale, ready to explain it was just luck, but before I can, a dad from the other team barrels into our conversation.

“Mr. Rodgers, is there any chance I can get you to sign my son’s helmet? He’s your biggest fan.”

Uncle Clay gives me a small smile and focuses on the man.

I shuffle away awkwardly, darkness dampening my mood. The teams are lining up on the blue line, so I take off toward them. The announcer stands between the two rows, medals with red ribbons hanging from his fingertips.

I stop beside Asher, and he leans closer to me. “Your dad came up to me when I was with Mom and said I was cool.”

I only now realize his dad hasn’t shown up again. He’s probably busy at work.

“You are.” I nod.

“And Drake Benson told me I’m good at stickhandling.” His green eyes sparkle. “Can you believe it?”

“Uh-huh.” I push my hair out of my eyes and scan the stands.

My dad and Uncle Drake are talking to a bunch of parents. Uncle Roman and Aunt Nevaeh stand off to one side, chatting with someone’s dad. Uncle Clay is still talking to the man who interrupted us.

Annoyance bubbles up inside me. Most of the time, I love it when Dad and his friends come to games, but when all the attention turns to them when it’s supposed to be about us, it’s frustrating.

But they came here to support us. I should be more grateful. Ugh, I’m stupid.

The announcer speaks, his voice booming through the arena, and the people in the stands focus their attention on us again.

My mood is all over the place, so I barely listen to anything he says.

“And now, for our very special award. The Holiday Spirit MVP goes to…number seven!”

I blink, my breath stalling out. What?

“That’s you.” Ash punches me in the shoulder with a grin. “Go get your cup. You deserve it.”

The crowd breaks into applause, and my teammates clap for me too, even some of the boys from the other team. As I skate over, my pulse quickens, and my chest aches in a strange way. My face splits into a smile as I stop in front of the announcer.

He pats my shoulder. “Future superstar right here. With genes like his dad’s, are we really surprised?” he says into the mic. “And on that note, of course we’d like to give a big thanks to Mr. Thompson for his generous sponsorship of today’s tournament. Couldn’t have done it without him!”

Everyone cheers louder at that part.

The announcer holds out the award—a little silver cup with Holiday Spirit MVP engraved on it. “You did great, kid. That last-minute goal? Priceless. I’ve been following your dad’s career for years, and if you continue to progress the way you have, you might just be as good as him one day.”

The tightness in my chest gets painful for half a second before I suck in a breath and smile again. This time, it takes effort. With a nod, I take the cup and skate back to the team, medal bouncing on my chest.

It should feel awesome. It does…mostly. But there’s this weird pang in my heart that makes me feel like what I did on the ice today matters less than my last name.

I don’t understand it.

After a celebratory lunch of burgers and fries with my teammates, we went home. Our family friends came with us, so the house is full of people. My mom put my little sister down for a nap; she’s asleep in her crib upstairs, not bothered in the slightest by all the noise. The house smells like the roasted chicken, baked potatoes, and the cinnamon cookies Mom prepared this morning. The lights on the Christmas tree cast a glow over blue and silver ornaments.

The comments from my dad’s friends and my teammates’ parents still play in my mind. Over and over, people would mess with my hair, ruffling it and saying stuff like, You’re just like your father out there! Or, same skating stride! Runs in the family. I laughed and smiled because it felt like the right thing to do, but the weird sensation in my gut only grew stronger, as if I’d swallowed a bunch of rocks, and they were pulling me down.

I don’t like it.

So, I sneak upstairs to my room, needing a break from not only all the conversations, but also the thoughts running through my head.

I take off my medal and drop it onto the desk. My MVP cup is downstairs, and I don’t really want to bring it up to my room. For reasons I don’t understand, it feels like I don’t deserve it, like it was a thank you award to my dad, not something I’d earned.

Ugh, even my thoughts are full of gloom.