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The photographer, a woman named Keely with short hair and a voice that carries, positions me near center ice. "Just do what you'd normally do. Skate, stop, whatever feels natural. I'll move around you."

So I skate. It feels awkward for the first thirty seconds — performing a thing I do automatically while someone crouched at ice level points a lens at me — but then Ducky yells "race you" from the boards, hops on in her skates, and we chase each other through a drill, and I forget about the camera. Keely shoots the whole thing, and I hear the shutter clicking like a metronome.

"Beautiful," Keely calls. "Now give me one where you stop hard. Ice spray. The whole thing."

I carve a hockey stop, and the spray fans out in an arc. Keely drops to one knee and fires off a burst. "Yes. Again."

We do this for twenty minutes. Ducky feeds me pucks, and I take shots on the empty net while Keely moves around me, adjusting angles. It starts to feel less like a photo shoot and more like practice with an audience, which I can handle.

"Okay," Keely says. "Gear change. Leggings and jersey, laces loose. Sitting on the bench like you just finished a shift."

We change in the locker room. Leggings, jersey, skates unlaced and loose. Hair down — Tate insisted on this and stands behind me, brushing through the tangles.

"You look like a Gatorade ad," she says.

"A sweaty after-practice ad."

"The best kind."

They seat us on the player’s bench with our sticks across our laps and my gloves beside me. Keely takes a series of close-ups — hands on the stick, skate laces, the Uprising crest on my chest. Then come wider shots of me leaning back against the boards, legs stretched out. It feels natural in a way I don't expect. This is what I look like after I’ve been playing.

And then it's the skirt.

I take everything off in the locker room and stand in my underwear, looking at the outfit on the bench. Tank top. Skirt. My high-top sneakers. A tube of Thigh Five with a bow on it, which is ridiculous but makes me laugh.

I pull on the tank top first. It fits snugly — tighter than I usually wear it — and the neckline rests just below my collarbones. My shoulders look broad. My arms look strong. I don't hate it.

The skirt slides on. I look in the mirror and see legs. Just legs, thick and carved by twenty years of skating, the scar on my left knee from a collision sophomore year, and the muscle that powers every stride.

I square my shoulders and walk back out to the rink.

Ducky spots me first, decked out in a similar sexy outfit but looking much more at ease. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles so loudly it echoes off the rafters. Joey slow-claps.

"Stop," I say.

"Never," Ducky says. "Keely, are you seeing this? Those are endorsement-deal legs."

Keely positions me on the bench again, this time with one foot up on the seat, the skirt riding up to show my quad. My sneakers are bright against the dark bench. The Thigh Five tube sits on the boards beside me, label out.

"Chin up," Keely says. "Think of something that makes you feel powerful."

I think about Cameron watching me come. About the way he said you're perfect and meant it with every cell in his enormous, tattooed body.

I pick up the Thigh Five tube and squeeze a line along my inner thigh.

My ex never wanted me to do endorsements. Said it was tacky and that real athletes didn't need the attention. What Christopher meant was that he didn't want me getting attention. He wanted me small, grateful, and focused exclusively on his needs.

The gel is cool. I spread it with my palm, working it into the skin — long, smooth strokes up from the knee — and my brain zooms to Cameron.

About his hand on my thigh in the car. The way his fingers pressed into my thigh like he was memorizing its shape. About his thumb on my shoulder during game film, tracing slow circles through my shirt. About his eyes on me when I knelt beside him on the bed, the way he looked at my body like it was something sacred.

I squeeze more gel onto my other thigh, my hand moves, and I'm not thinking about chafing anymore. I'm thinking about his voice. Come for me, Briar. The rough accent. The focus on his face.

Keely's shutter fires. "There. Whatever that thought was — keep it."

She moves around me, taking shots from different angles. Legs crossed on the bench. Standing with my stick, my skirt swaying. Leaning against the boards, one hip cocked, looking over my shoulder at the ice. I've never been photographed like this — not for hockey, not for the Olympic team, not for anything. Those photos are always about the sport. Action shots, team poses, equipment visible. This is about me. My body. My legs. The fact that I'm a woman who plays hockey and owns a skirt means both can be true at once.

"Last one," Keely says. "Sit on the ice. Back against the boards. Legs out."