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That snaps me back to this moment. I grind my teeth and squeeze my hand around the handle of my stick. Anything I can do to ground myself. Because the scenes in my head were six years ago, but now is now.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
She does a double take. “How…”
How can I still play? Everyone keeps asking.
It’s stranger that she is asking me now. I’m not a budding celebrity like my boyfriend, so it’s not like I expected her to have read the news articles about my case. But it’s weird to find out she’s probably gone all these years believing she took away my ability to play, maybe even move. And like maybe she didn’t pay much attention to the Strikes’ roster in preparation for this game, and my presence is fully catching her off guard.
Then I see—really see—that there’s as much pain in her expression as there is in my back. Almost as if she’s grappling with guilt. For how little I’ve wanted to think about the girl who injured me, I realize in this moment that I’ve always dismissed her as a two-bit villain in my soap opera. But maybe she’s as scared and clueless as I am.
The ref catches my attention, unable to wait a second longer to start the game. I take a deep breath and respond. “I’ll show you how.”
I get into position for the faceoff. My back feels a bit stiff as I bend forward, but I channel all my emotions into my muscles. Perfectly balanced on my legs and the blade of my stick. A different Siren glares at me as if I stole the last slice of her pizza. Instead, I gift her a feral grin.
The puck drops, and I battle for it like my life depends on it, as if this is the last game of my career. I win the biscuit for my team, and the one who gets it is Chelsea. She plays like the Sirens owe her money. Her attempt at a slapshot not even thirty seconds into the game sets the pace for everyone else.
A few plays later, the puck returns to me, and I come alive. I can see a fairly clear path to the Sirens’ goal if I zigzag past two defense players. I send the puck to one of my teammates, but it doesn’t take the heat off me. One Siren is determined to be in my way. The poor sucker thinks she stands a chance. She even goes as far as to put her stick in the way of my skates.
I jump it. I can picture Max laughing and calling me Tinker Bell. The queen of the ice sounds cooler, but the fairy on ice doesn’t have as bad a ring as I previously thought. I’m up against one more defensive Siren, and it’s that girl again, returned from my memories in the flesh, as if life wanted to make me afraid again.
No gracias, mija.
I intercept a pass. The girl is more focused on trying to stop me than on the puck, so I dangle it between her legs. A shout from the stands sounds a lot like my boyfriend. Like maybe he liked that play. My path to the goal isn’t clear anymore. There are a lot of bodies between it and me. But my teammates are fighting to clear the way. And then I see it. A hole in the goalie’s stance that comes and goes with the motions.
Before I think too hard, I swing my stick and snipe.
There’s a fraction of a second where the kerfuffle obstructs my view. But then the buzzer goes off.
I throw my hands up in the air with a scream. It morphs into a wail as Strikes slam against me into a group hug like we just won the world championship and the credits are about to roll. I feel like crying and screaming some more, but the game goes on.
We fight with all our might against the Sirens. Every faceoff is a gladiator fight. Every inch of ice is a conquest. The boards see a lot of action, but even then, no one lands in the sin bin. Which means neither team gets a reprieve. I forget all about my family in the stands, because every second of this game counts toward the goal of winning. This isn’t like any game at the start of the season. Winning against the best team in the conference will put the Strikes on the map.
Every cell in my body is focused on that. The pain is still probably there, throbbing like a toothache. But right now, all I care about is keeping the score in our favor.
When the final buzz blows, I can barely believe it. I look up at the scoreboard, and the fight drains out of my body. I don’t even know how I’m not falling backward.
Because one to zero, we won. My early goal won us the toughest game of the season.
“Yeah!” One of my teammates slams into me. Fortunately, a second one appears on the opposite side to keep me upright.
There’s a lot of booing around the arena, but underneath the noise, I hear my name. Over a teammate’s helmet, I glance around and finally spot them thanks to my S’more.
Max waves his arms around, and it’s impossible to miss him. He’s ginormous. Beside him, Aran is clapping—which is huge coming from him. Then there’s Aceituna, her hands around her mouth while she hollers my name. Hers was the incessant voice piercing through the booing. Next to her is her best friend, Brooklyn. He keeps high-fiving my mom, who jumps in turn as if she has too much energy to contain in her small body.
And last, there’s Dad. He wipes his eyes with the back of a hand, and then the other, because tears apparently won’t stop falling.
The lump in my throat rises with a wail. Right there, in the middle of the ice, I break down in tears.
CHAPTER 37
MAX
“How’s your condition?” my girlfriend asks. The question itself makes sense, considering I’m about to go play against my nephew again and our entire family is in the stands. What’s abnormal about it is the way she asks.
Currently, my face is smooshed between her hands. Which also means I’m forced to be bent over to her level. The position is uncomfortable, and we keep getting wolf whistles from the guys in the locker room who are spying from the open door. I should probably be annoyed.
Instead, I’m trying really hard to not pick her up, slam her against the wall, and have my way with her. She’s wrapped in winter clothes like a burrito and all I can see is her face and hair cascading over her shoulders. Even then, my blood is thrumming in my body.
