Chapter Seven

Nora 

The goal crease felt smaller tonight.

Not because the net had changed size, same six-by-four rectangle it had always been but because everything else was expanding. The scholarship email sitting unread in my inbox since yesterday. The new drills Coach K had sent over, full of clips from D1 goalies who made it look effortless. And Jordan’s last text still glowing on my lock screen like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.

You’re the best goalie I’ve ever seen.

He always said things like that. Simple. Certain. Like the ice itself. But tonight, after two hours of solo work under the dim practice lights, certainty felt like something that belonged to other people.

I dropped into a butterfly stance again, pads creaking, and visualized the shooter coming down the wing. Glove high. Blocker ready. Eyes on the puck, not the player. The puck hit my chest protector with a dull thud and bounced away. Another save. Another reminder that muscle memory could only carry me so far when my head was somewhere else.

I skated to the boards and grabbed my water bottle. The rink was empty except for the faint hum of the refrigeration system and the occasional drip from a melting icicle near the roof. This place had been home since we were seven. Same cracked plexiglass in the corner from that time Jordan accidentally roofed it during a shootout. Same faded championship banner from 2019 hanging like a ghost above center ice.

I pulled out my phone. No new messages. Good. I didn’t know what I’d say if Jordan asked how the extra session went. Terrified wasn’t exactly the vibe I wanted to send at 10:47 p.m.

The academy was in Minnesota. Minnesota. Four states and a world away from everything here. Full ride, elite program, scouts from national teams. On paper it was the dream I’d been chasing since I first strapped on goalie pads and realized I liked being the wall between my friends and disappointment.

But dreams have teeth.

I thought about the way Jordan had looked at me in the parking lot after that last loss. The way he’d said I had to take it, like he was already letting go. Like he was being the good captain already. The A on his jersey wasn’t just letters—it was weight. I knew that better than most.

My phone buzzed in my glove. Mom.

[Mom]: still at the rink? come home soon, school tomorrow

[Nora]: leaving now

I lied. I stayed another twenty minutes, taking shots on myself from awkward angles, trying to outrun the quiet fear that had been building since the offer came in. What if I went and failed? What if I stayed and always wondered? What if the one thing that had always made sense, me and Jordan against the world on this ice couldn’t survive the distance?

By the time I finally unlaced my skates, my legs were jelly and my mind was louder than the arena lights buzzing overhead. I shoved everything into my bag and headed for the side exit, the cold night air hitting me like a wake-up call.

My car was the only one left in the lot. As I tossed my bag in the trunk, headlights swept across the pavement. A familiar truck slowed to a stop a few spaces away.

Jordan.

He killed the engine but didn’t get out right away. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, looking at me through the windshield like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

I waited.

Finally he climbed out, hoodie up against the wind, that ridiculous beanie he’d had since sophomore year pulled low. The A wasn’t on his chest tonight but I could still feel it between us.

“You said you were heading home,” he said, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet.

“I lied.”

He nodded like he’d expected that. “Extra drills still kicking your ass?”

“Something like that.”

We stood there in the cold, breath fogging between us. Ten years of this... finishing each other’s sentences, knowing when to push and when to sit in the silence. But tonight the silence had edges.

“I’m scared too,” he said suddenly.

I looked up sharply. Jordan Ellis didn’t admit fear. Not on the ice. Not off it.

“Of what?”

He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Of the season. Of messing up this captain thing. Of…” He glanced away, toward the dark rink doors. “Of things changing.”

The words landed heavy. I wanted to step closer. I wanted to tell him that Minnesota felt like stepping off a cliff and I didn’t know if I’d fly or fall. Instead I hugged my arms tighter around myself.

“The deadline’s end of the month,” I whispered.

“I know.”

Neither of us moved. The ice under us wasn’t visible, but we both felt it, thin in places, holding for now, but shifting with every new crack.

Jordan reached out and tugged the pom on my beanie like he used to when we were kids. “Come on. I’ll follow you home so your mom doesn’t kill you for being late.”

I nodded, climbing into my car before he could see the stupid sting in my eyes.

As I drove out of the lot with his headlights steady in my rearview, I wondered how long we could keep skating like this, side by side, pretending the ice wasn’t warning us both.