The Jersey

"Turn around."

Riley froze with her hand on the hem of her shirt. She didn't look back. She knew exactly where Jax was—sitting on the edge of his bed, probably watching her with that same narrow-eyed look he’d had since the dining hall.

"I'm changing, Jax. Get out."

"It's my room, too. And you've got a hoodie on over a t-shirt. What are you, a nesting doll?" Jax’s voice was closer now. She heard the soft thud of his socks on the carpet. "Just take the damn thing off and put your jersey on. We’re late for the bus."

"I'll meet you there."

"Coach said together. Door to door." He was standing right behind her now. She could feel the heat. It was like standing next to a furnace. "What is it? You got a tattoo of a rival team? A girl’s name?"

"None of your business."

"You make it my business when you act like a freak." Jax reached out and grabbed the back of her hoodie. It wasn't an attack. It was a tug, a frustrated, impatient yank.

Riley spun around, slapping his hand away. "Don't touch me!"

The slap echoed in the small room. Jax stood there, his hand hanging in the air, his expression shifting from annoyance to something darker. Something dangerous. He didn't speak for a long beat. He just stared at her.

"You're shaking," he said quietly.

"I'm not."

"You are." He stepped forward, closing the gap until Riley’s back hit the cold wood of her wardrobe. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You’ve been here three days and you haven't taken that hoodie off once. Not even to sleep. You’re sweating, Woods. You’re going to dehydrate before the first period ends."

"I like the heat."

"Liar." Jax’s eyes searched hers. He wasn't looking for a fight anymore; he was looking for the truth. "Ryan wouldn't have slapped me. He would have swung. He would have called me a prick and started a brawl. You... you look like you're about to jump out of your skin."

"Maybe I'm just sick of you, Jax. Did you ever think of that?"

"Everyone is sick of me. That doesn't make them act like a ghost." He stayed there for a second longer, his gaze lingering on the line of her throat. Then he backed off, grabbing his own gear bag. "Fine. Hide. But if you pass out on the ice because you're wearing three layers in a sixty-degree rink, I'm leaving you there."

The door slammed behind him.

Riley sank onto the bed, her breath coming in ragged bursts. She pulled the jersey out of her bag. Number 17. The fabric felt like lead. She stripped off the hoodie, leaving only the tight, restrictive binder. Her skin was raw where the elastic dug in. She didn't have time to fix it. She pulled the jersey on, the heavy mesh falling over her frame.

She looked at the door. She had to get through this game. One game.

The bus ride to the Eagles’ arena was a nightmare of loud music and testosterone. The guys were shouting, throwing crumpled paper at each other, talking about who they were going to hit and how hard.

Riley sat in the very back row, her forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window.

"Hey."

She didn't move.

"Woods. Wake up."

It was Miller. He slid into the seat next to her, smelling like peppermint gum. "You look like you're heading to a funeral, not an exhibition."

"Just tired."

"Jax says you're being a 'Diva' again." Miller chuckled. "He’s obsessed with you, man. I’ve never seen him track a teammate like that. Usually he doesn't give a damn about anyone who isn't on his line."

"He's a prick," Riley muttered.

"He's a defenseman. It's in the job description." Miller leaned back, his eyes following the passing trees. "But he’s right about one thing. You’re playing different. You used to be all about the flash. The highlight reel stuff. Now you’re... defensive. Like you’re playing to not lose instead of playing to win."

"Is that a problem?"

"On this team? Yeah. Coach wants blood. Especially against the Eagles."

The bus turned into the stadium lot. Riley saw the green and white banners. She saw the fans—students from her own school who thought she was at home in her bed. She saw the face of her brother’s best friend on a massive digital billboard.

Beckett.

She pulled her cap lower.

The Eagles’ locker room was smaller than the Falcons’. It felt cramped and smelled of old wood and bleach.

"Lines are up!" Coach yelled. "Woods, you're starting. Jax, Miller, stay on him. I want a wall. Nobody gets to the net. Nobody."

Riley stood in front of the mirror, snapping her cage shut. Her eyes looked wide behind the metal bars.

"Woods."

She turned. Jax was standing by the door, his stick in his hand. He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"Don't let Beckett get in your head," he said.

"He's not in my head."

"He is. I saw you looking at him in the lounge. You look at him like he’s your long-lost dog." Jax stepped closer, his voice dropping below the noise of the room. "He’s the enemy tonight. He hits hard. If you freeze up because you like his smile, I’ll hit you harder than he does."

"I don't like his smile."

"Good. Then prove it."

They walked out into the tunnel. The roar of the crowd was a physical weight. The lights were too bright, reflecting off the ice until everything looked like a blur of white and silver.

Riley skated to the center circle. Beckett was already there.

He looked at her, his eyes searching through her cage. "Ryan," he mouthed.

The ref dropped the puck.

The game was a chaotic blur. Riley moved on instinct, her feet doing things her brain couldn't process. She felt the impact of bodies against the boards, the sharp sting of ice spray on her face, the heavy thud of the puck against her stick.

Every time she got close to the Eagles’ goal, Beckett was there. He wasn't playing mean, but he was playing tight.

"You're slow today, Woodsy!" Beckett shouted as they raced for a loose puck.

Riley didn't answer. She pivoted, trying to shake him, but he was a shadow. He leaned into her, his shoulder clipping hers. It wasn't a hard hit, but it was enough to knock her off balance.

She went down.

The whistle blew.

"Get up!" Jax was there, grabbing her by the jersey and hauling her to her feet. "Stop letting him skate over you!"

"He tripped me!"

"He didn't trip you, you fell!" Jax shoved her toward the bench. "Sit. You're useless like this."

Riley sat on the bench, her chest heaving. She felt the heat rising, the frustration bubbling in her throat. She wasn't Ryan. She couldn't play like him. She was Riley. She was fast, she was smart, but she wasn't a bruiser.

She looked at the clock. Five minutes left in the second period.

"Woods, get back out there!" Coach barked. "And do something!"

She stepped back onto the ice. She didn't look at Jax. She didn't look at Beckett. She looked at the puck.

She caught it at mid-ice. She didn't try to out-muscle anyone. She used her speed. She wove through the defense, her heart hammering against the binder. She felt the wind, the cold, the absolute silence of her own focus.

She saw the gap. She fired.

The puck hit the back of the net.

The crowd went wild. Riley let out a breath, a small smile touching her lips.

Then she felt it.

A heavy impact from behind.

She flew forward, her face hitting the ice. Her helmet spun. She felt the snap of her chin strap.

"What the hell was that?" she heard Jax roar.

She rolled over, clutching her head. Her helmet had slid half-off.

Beckett was standing over her, his eyes wide. He had been the one who hit her. It was a clean hit, a hockey hit, but it had been harder than he intended.

"Ryan? Man, I'm sorry, I—"

Beckett stopped.

He was looking at her forehead. He was looking at the way her hair, damp with sweat, had escaped the helmet. He was looking at her eyes.

The rink went silent.

Jax was there in a second, shoving Beckett away. "Back off! You hit him late!"

"Jax, wait," Beckett said, his voice shaking. "Wait."

"I said back off!" Jax turned to Riley, reaching down to grab her helmet.

Riley's hand flew up, grabbing the cage, pulling it back down over her face. "I'm fine!" she shouted, her voice cracking.

"Your head hit the ice, Woods. Let me see." Jax reached for her again.

"No!" She scrambled to her feet, her skates slipping. She didn't look at Beckett. She didn't look at Jax. She skated for the bench, for the tunnel, for anywhere that wasn't here.

"Woods! Get back here!" Coach yelled.

She didn't stop. She ran through the tunnel, the rubber mats echoing under her blades. She burst into the locker room. It was empty. Quiet.

She threw her helmet across the room. It hit a locker with a deafening clang.

She sank onto the bench, her head in her hands.

He saw. He saw me.

The door opened.

She didn't look up. She expected Coach. She expected a lecture.

"Woods."

It was Jax. He walked in, his skates clicking slowly. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, watching her.

"Coach is pissed," he said.

"I don't care."

"Beckett is acting like he saw a ghost. He refused to go back on the ice." Jax walked closer, stopping in front of her. "What did he see, Ryan?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me." Jax reached down, his hand wrapping around her wrist, pulling her hand away from her face. "Look at me."

Riley looked up.

Jax froze. His eyes moved over her face, the sweat, the fear, the messy hair. He looked at the way the jersey sat on her shoulders. He looked at the way she was breathing.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"I'm playing hockey, Jax."

"You're not Ryan." It wasn't a question. It was a realization.

Riley didn't move. She didn't blink. "Ryan couldn't come."

"So you just... what? Put on a jersey and walked in?" Jax’s grip on her wrist tightened. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to you? To the team?"

"I'm better than him, Jax. You saw the goal."

"That doesn't matter!" He shoved her back, his face contorted with a mix of anger and something she couldn't name. "You're a girl in a men's locker room. You're a lie."

"And you're a prick, but nobody’s kicking you off the team."

Jax laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "You think this is a joke? You think you can just play dress-up and win a championship?"

"I am winning!"

The door creaked. Both of them spun around.

Beckett was standing in the doorway. He looked pale. He looked like he was going to throw up.

"Riley?" he breathed.

The silence in the room was absolute.

"Get out, Beckett," Jax said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Is it you?" Beckett stepped into the room, ignoring Jax. "Is it really you?"

Riley stood up. She felt small, but she kept her shoulders back. "Yeah, Beck. It's me."

Beckett looked at Jax, then back at Riley. "Does everyone know?"

"Just him," Riley said, gesturing to Jax.

"And me," Beckett said. "God, Riley... what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that it wasn't fair," she snapped. "I was thinking that I worked just as hard as Ryan. Harder. And he was just going to throw it away."

"You have to leave," Beckett said. "Now. Before Coach comes in here."

"She’s not going anywhere," Jax said.

Riley and Beckett both looked at him.

Jax was leaning against a locker, his arms crossed. He looked calm. Too calm.

"What?" Riley asked.

"If you leave now, the story breaks," Jax said. "The Falcons are disqualified. My season is over. My scouts go home." He looked at Riley, a dark glint in his eyes. "You're going to keep playing."

"Jax, you can't be serious," Beckett said.

"I'm very serious. She stays Ryan Woods. We win the season. And then she disappears." Jax stepped toward Riley, his shadow falling over her. "But from now on, you do exactly what I say. You don't talk to Beckett. You don't leave the room without me. You belong to the Falcons now."

Riley felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ice.

"And if I don't?"

Jax smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Then I tell everyone exactly who is under that jersey."