Chapter Eight

Jordan 

The whistle cut through the air like a blade on fresh ice, sharp and final. Coach Rimer stood at center ice, clipboard tucked under one arm, his face the usual mask of mild disappointment mixed with something that might have been calculation. Practice had been brutal today, full contact drills, power play setups, and suicide sprints that left half the team sucking wind by the third round. My legs burned, but it was the good kind of burn, the one that reminded me why I loved this game even when it tried to break me.

“Ellis!” Coach barked. “Center the next rush. Let’s see if that A means anything yet.”

I nodded, tapping my stick on the ice twice, our team’s old signal for “got it” and skated back to the face-off dot. The guys were scattered across the neutral zone, jerseys soaked with sweat despite the cold. Danny lined up on my wing, grinning like an idiot even though his face was red from the last sprint. Cho took the other side, quiet and focused as always. And back in net, Nora was resetting after a string of tough saves, her mask pushed up on her helmet, hair sticking to her forehead in damp strands.

She caught my eye for half a second. Nothing dramatic, just that quick, familiar flick of recognition we’d perfected over a decade. But today it felt heavier. Like there was a question in it I didn’t know how to answer. You okay? I wanted to skate over and ask. Are we okay? Instead, I dropped into position and waited for the puck drop.

The drill started clean. I won the face-off, dishing it back to Webb on defense. He fed it up the boards to Danny, who carried it hard into the zone. I trailed the play, reading the angles like Coach had drilled into us since Mites. Their “opposition” a mix of second-line guys playing aggressive, closed in fast. Cho took a hit along the wall but managed a centering pass. The puck slid right to my tape.

I faked a shot, pulled it back, and threaded it toward the net. Nora was already moving, that butterfly drop she nailed better than anyone our age. The puck clanged off her pad and ricocheted into the corner. Save. Again.

“Nice try, Captain,” she called out, her voice muffled but teasing through the mask. The guys chuckled. It was the kind of banter that usually loosened everyone up. Today, it made my chest tighten instead.

We ran the drill three more times. Each rush felt like a test, not just of our lines, but of whatever was stretching thin between Nora and me. On the last one, I went high glove side, a shot I’d been working on all summer. She robbed me clean, the puck snapping into her trapper with a satisfying smack. The team whooped.

“Ellis, you’re making her look like a pro already,” Danny yelled, skating past with a shoulder bump.

I forced a laugh and circled back to the bench for water. But as I gulped from my bottle, I watched Nora skate to the crease and tap her posts, her ritual, the same one she’d done since we were kids. Left post for luck, right for focus, crossbar for the gods of goaltending. It used to make me smile without thinking. Now it reminded me of the email she’d mentioned. The academy. Minnesota. A place where rituals like that might evolve into something bigger, something without me in the frame.

Practice wrapped with bag skates, Coach’s favorite punishment for “lack of urgency.” By the end, even the chatter had died down. We filed into the locker room, gear clattering, the air thick with that familiar mix of sweat, tape, and the faint metallic tang of the ice that clung to everything. I dropped onto the bench next to my stall, unlacing my skates slowly. The A on my jersey stared back at me from where it hung on the hook. It still felt new. Foreign.

Danny plopped down across from me, peeling off his shoulder pads. “Dude, you seeing anyone after this? Party at Cho’s folks’ place is low-key. No parents till late.”

I shook my head. “Nah. Homework. And Mom’s been on me about curfew since that last overtime loss.”

“Lame.” He grinned, but his eyes flicked toward Nora’s side of the room, the girls’ section was separated by a divider, but we all shared the main space for announcements. “What about Nora? She coming?”

The question landed like a bad pass. I shrugged, keeping my voice even. “Dunno. Ask her.”

Danny raised an eyebrow but let it drop. Smart guy. Most of the team knew Nora and I were tight had been since forever but they didn’t push. Not yet, anyway. Webb started blasting some old rock playlist from his phone, the kind with guitars that sounded like they were fighting the drums. Guys started ribbing each other about missed assignments and that one shift where the fourth line got walked.

I tuned it out, my mind replaying the scholarship conversation from last night. Nora’s text about being scared. My lame response about her being the best. It wasn’t enough. Nothing felt like enough lately. Ten years of easy friendship, and suddenly every word carried extra weight, like we were skating with lead in our skates.

By the time I showered and changed into sweats and a hoodie, the locker room had mostly cleared. Nora was still at her locker when I emerged, her hair damp from her own shower, braided back in that practical way she did for games. She was stuffing her pads into her bag with more force than necessary.

“Hey,” I said, leaning against the divider. “You killed it today. Those glove saves? Academy scouts would eat that up.”

She paused, then zipped the bag shut. “Thanks. Your shot’s getting sneakier. That deke in the third rush almost had me.”

Almost. That word hung there. Like everything else between us these days.

We walked out to the parking lot together, our boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that had dusted the asphalt overnight. The rink lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows. Her car was parked next to mine, as usual. Habit.

“You heading to Cho’s?” I asked, even though I already knew.

She shook her head. “Nah. Mom’s making dinner. And I have that video analysis Coach K sent. New goalie stuff from the academy program.”

There it was again. The academy. It slipped into every conversation like an uninvited player on the ice.

I stopped by her trunk as she loaded her gear. “Nora… about last night. You said you were scared of fucking it up. The chance.”

She turned, arms crossed against the cold. Her breath fogged in the streetlight. “Yeah. I did.”