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I stop a second before sliding onto the ice and turn. Coach Young hung back with me at the end of the line, refreshing some of the strategies we’ll use for this game, but I thought we were done when the conversation stalled a minute ago while she made some notes. The Northeastern Sirens team is the best in the conference, but our track record so far is good enough that we may stand a chance.
My heart’s been beating wildly at that prospect—that, and because I know my family’s somewhere in the stands.
“Yes, Coach?”
She’s using that stare that is supposed to see right through me. “How’s your back?”
Everyone else is already on the ice, skating around the inner circle of the arena. The Sirens skate the outer one, riling up their home audience.
I shift closer to my coach for this conversation. “How did you know it’s been flaring up?”
“I know everything.”
I’m sure she does. Clearing my throat, I say, “I visited the PT this morning, and she cleared me to play.”
“Do you see me asking her?” She shakes her head. “How do you feel?”
I bite my lower lip. I’m not at a hundred percent, or what that normally looks like for me. My chronic pain is something I live with every day, but sometimes I almost forget it’s even there. On those days, it’s easy to pretend like nothing happened six years ago. Like I’m just a regular athlete. But some days, like earlier this week, it very much reminds me that I’m not. And I never will be.
It took me a long time to accept that’s just the way it is for me. It took me a very short time to understand that on the bad days, I still deserve to have a life. That I don’t want to be treated with kid gloves or looked at with pity. None of that is going to take the pain away, and it pisses me off. That was the biggest source of problem I had with my parents.
And then there’s Max. He did what he could to comfort me when the pain flared up. But in the end, he left the choice to me. He trusted that I knew my body better than him.
I focus back on Coach Young. “Today is much better. I feel good enough to play.”
I don’t even have to brace for the typical patronizing response. All she does is nod.
“Good. You’ll let me know if that status changes. Now off you go.”
Off I don’t go. Instead, blinking back sudden tears, I grab her arm just as she’s turning to the bench. “Coach, can I ask you something?”
“What’s that?”
“Um.” I swallow the lump in my throat and pull my gloved hand away from her. “Even though you’ve known about my chronic pain from the beginning… why did you recruit me?”
Overhead, a presenter with a mic says something. A wave of applause explodes in the arena, and the lights turn on all the way. We’re probably about to line up and sing the anthem, but I don’t want to leave without an answer.
“Pain issues are not uncommon in sports. But—” Coach Young pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. “You’re one of the strongest athletes I’ve met. Mentally. And I wanted that on my team.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Before I start bawling my eyes out, I slide onto the ice and join the Strikes’ line. We’re short a JT, but she tagged along in the big team bus and is in the stands. Sure enough, I spot her easily thanks to the gigantic poster she made. It has a blue background and more yellow glitter than a single craft store had available—she went to two. It reads STRIKE THE MATCH! and I love it.
I try to spot the Rodriguez clan, but then the first notes of the anthem hit, and I have to face forward. Across from me is the Sirens’ captain. She’s looking at me, wide-eyed, as if I’m a truck headed her way at full speed. And as awesome as it feels to inspire awe in an opponent, this is bizarre.
Then it strikes me like lightning. She’s taller than me, with a light brown ponytail draped over her shoulder and eyes that match. Her front tooth has a familiar chip. This is the girl who gave me the bad hit that damaged my spinal cord. I knew we’d be playing each other tonight, but I didn’t expect a close encounter this early.
My mouth goes as dry as cotton, and I break into a sweat. I feel it trickle down my back under the many layers I’m wearing. I wish I could scratch it. Shit, the pain is coming back with a vengeance.
The anthem ends, and everyone falls into position. I’m supposed to do the faceoff, but I’m stuck staring at this girl. The memories flood back.
It was one of those games in middle school where I played really, really well, so this girl had it out for me. She would chase me up and down the ice, even abandoning her position if it meant she could block me from scoring. In a tussle, I accidentally elbowed her face and chipped her tooth.
A big discussion between her parents and the refs ensued about what to do with me. Her parents demanded I get kicked out of the game altogether. We were just twelve-year-old girls, not professional hockey players. But in the end, it had been an accident. The refs gave me time in the bin, and I went back out to play. And rather than leaving the game to go fix the tooth issue I gave her, she came after me with a dirty hit.
I still remember her expression when I came to, sprawled on the ice, unable to move. It was the same horror she’s looking at me with right now.
“It’s you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
