1. Spencer

CHAPTER 1

SPENCER

I came off the ice one solid ache, drained and sweat-drenched and out of sorts.

On a good day of training I'd still finish tired, but not bumbling, stumbling tired. Not tired like this. I'd float off the ice all knife-edge sharp, honed mind and body, ready for more. I'd see colors brighter. Smell the ice crisp and clear. My fingers, half-frozen, would fly over my skates, undoing my laces with practiced ease.

Today wasn't a good day. I half-fell off the ice. Tripped over the half-step coming out of the rink. My shoulder slammed into the Plexiglas shield, adding one more ache to the growing pile. I blundered to the locker room and plopped down on the bench. Fumbled with my laces. Dan and Enrique clumped up behind me.

"What's up, Grandpa?" Dan leaned over my shoulder. "He goes for the loop. He tries a punch turn. And… ooh, ooh, he's lost it. Fouled by a bootlace!"

Enrique laughed. "Did he just tie it twice?"

I clenched my jaw, in no mood for their ribbing. They meant nothing by it — I'd been on the other end enough times to know that — but today had been bad enough without them piling on, every crisp brake turning into a skid, every explosive pivot fizzling on launch. The shouts of our speed coach still rang in my ears — Focus! Get lower! Loosen those hips!

"Fuck off," I muttered.

"Double knot," said Dan. "What are you, thirty now? Maybe it's Alzheimer's. You're supposed to untie your laces, not tie them again."

"My gramps had that too," said Enrique. "We put Post-Its on everything so he'd remember their names. Anyone got a Post-It? Anyone?—"

"Fuck off ." I jerked on my lace so hard it gave with a snap. Enrique backed off, hands raised in surrender.

"Okay, okay, chill. We're just messing around."

"You're, what, twenty-six?" I spun around, seething. "You think thirty's still miles off, but it'll be on you like that ." I snapped my fingers. "I swear, one bad day, and you assholes swoop in?—"

"Hey, sorry." Dan clapped my shoulder. "I get it. You're tired. Little moody, maybe."

Enrique smirked. "Sore back. Swollen ankles."

"Mood swings."

"Weird cravings."

I shoved them off, groaning. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm on the rag."

"You said it," said Dan. "But, seriously, we good? We can quit with the old jokes if they're getting, well, old. We've got slow jokes as well."

"Tall jokes. Tired jokes."

" You're a tired joke." I swatted at Enrique. "Really, we're good, just one of those days. Nothing feels right out there. Can't catch my rhythm."

"Come out for a drink with us. Might loosen you up." Dan offered his hand, but I waved him away.

"I can't tonight. Got plans with my roommate. But you guys have fun, and I'll see you tomorrow."

Dan and Enrique headed for the showers. I went back to my skates and gave up in disgust, yanking them off with the laces still tied. Then I wiped off my blades and put on dry skate guards, and sat on the bench with my head in my hands. My whole body hurt, my neck, my back. My thighs, calves, and ankles. My shoulders. My ass. I tried to remember if it'd hurt this bad in my twenties, but the body recalls pain only in the abstract. You might remember an ache so deep you got sick, but not what that ache felt like, or how it compared to some new one. And everything hurt worse when you were losing — which the New Mexico Ice Bears had done a lot lately.

I dug through my duffel in search of my phone. It wasn't too late to cancel on Leon. If I went out tonight, I'd drink. I'd get drunk. I'd wake up tomorrow mean and hung over, and thirty wasn't twenty, when it came to hangovers. I'd still be moody come game time, still sour and distracted.

When I woke up my phone, Leon had texted — WE'RE CELEbrATING , then a string of emojis. He'd scored some huge job, some celebrity wedding. His floofy hors d'oeuvres would be on TV.

I was wrong!

SO wrong!

Reality TV isn't for morons!

Reality TV will make my crepes famous!!!!!!!!!!!

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled all the same. It was good to see Leon's star rising, even as mine sputtered and dimmed. He'd worked hard on his business, started from nothing. Built up his client list from whoever would hire him. Now he was catering celebrity weddings. Meanwhile, I'd gone from the Flames to the Bruins, and when they'd dropped me, I'd wound up back home, on Albuquerque's scrappy new team. Three short years later, we were the joke of the league.

I fired a text back to Leon — See you in thirty . I couldn't ditch him tonight and kill his good mood. But I'd need a buffer if I wanted to stay sober. Someone to distract me. To keep my mind off of my downfall. I scrolled through my contacts and found my other roommate, and thumbed on her contact. I only meant to text her, but I called by mistake. She picked up on the first ring, before I could cancel.

"Hey, Spencer," she said.

I sighed. "Hey, Izzy."

"Long day at practice?"

"The longest. Eternal." I stretched out on the bench, flat on my back. My legs hung off the side, and I heaved them up. One of my socks had a quarter-sized hole in it. I wiggled my toe through it. Somehow, even that hurt. "Listen, I promised Leon I'd take him out drinking. He got that big contract, the one on TV. You've got to come with us, or I'll end up drowning my sorrows."

Izzy made a pained sound, sucking air through her teeth. "If you'd called me five minutes ago, I'd have been like ‘hell, yeah.' But I just promised Lola I'd go out with her."

"Lola from work?" I tried to hide my disappointment.

"Yeah. We're going dancing."

"Well, have a good time." I didn't hang up. Talking to Izzy always made me feel calmer, like her easy good humor was somehow contagious. I'd never seen her in a bad mood, that I could remember. Life's daily annoyances slid off her back. She called getting sick a "snot vacation," and when her boss was a dick to her, she never seemed bothered. She did this impression of him on a rampage, her eyes bugging out, her arms flailing.

"You still there?" said Izzy.

"Yeah." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "How do you always, how do you…"

"What?"

"I kind of blew up just now. Yelled at my teammates. Had a bad day at practice, and I went off like a jackass."

Izzy just laughed. "They probably deserved it. From what I've seen of your teammates, you're a whole herd of asses."

I snorted. "Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome. Jackass."

I blew her a raspberry, feeling weirdly better. Down the line, I heard rustling, Izzy shifting around.

"I need to get going," she said. "But listen. Chin up, yeah? This bad streak you're having, it's only a streak. You're a great player. Trust me. I know. Your next game, or maybe the one after that, you'll have this moment when everything clicks — your training, your teammates, your natural talent. You'll shoot through their defense into a whole new streak."

She sounded so confident, I almost believed her. But my back was still twinging, my toes hot with chilblains.

"Don't get in your head," she said. "I can feel you overthinking."

"How can you feel that?"

"Don't know. I just can."

Someone called Izzy's name, and she gave a quiet hiss.

"That's my boss, sorry. You going to be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just need to relax."

"See you at home, then." Izzy hung up.

I lay for a moment, eyes closed, half-smiling, but I knew if I lay there too long I'd fall asleep. I'd wake up all stiff and rank with old sweat, and I'd be sore for tomorrow's game. I forced myself up and made for the showers. My jackass teammates had drained the hot water, or it had never got hot at all. I took a lukewarm shower and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and headed out to meet Leon at the bar.

Traffic was slow heading back into town, and coming up on downtown, I could see why — lights up ahead, flashing blue, red, and orange. An accident bad enough they'd all showed up, police, fire and ambulance blocking the road. Someone honked up ahead of me and I thought of Izzy. What would she do, stuck on Mountain and First?

"Don't get in your head," I said, echoing her advice. More horns honked and I smacked the wheel. I put on the radio, but Leon had messed with my presets — country again, instead of rock.

You need to see it, said Coach Nelson, loud in my head. Your technique's all there, but you can't see it. You're not visualizing victory. You're stuck in defeat mode.

I flipped through the stations — news, news, more country. Slapped the radio off and inched my truck forward. Maybe Coach had a point. Even in my dreams lately, I kept on losing. The goal shrank to a pinhole, or the ice turned to slush. The puck grew wings and flew away cawing.

Remember as a kid, playing street hockey? That voice in your head, ‘he shoots, he scores'? Bring that voice back when you're cooking a meal. When you're shoveling your driveway. When you're doing nothing at all. See yourself score that goal, see play for play.

I gripped the wheel, feeling stupid, and tried to see it, but I'd never been much the fanciful type. I didn't picture myself doing things. I went out and did them.

"He shoots. He scores," I said aloud. Somebody honked, and I blew out a breath, frustrated. I tried again to see myself skating. To feel it, the tension, the strain on my ankles. The pull in my hips as I dropped to a crouch. I saw a defenseman coming straight at me, head down, stance wide, blocking my way.

He turns, he breaks left, he crashes through that defense line. And he's got the puck, he shoots — what a goal!

The tips of my ears went hot and I chuckled, embarrassed. I did feel like a kid, and not in a good way. Small, short, and wimpy, not strong and decisive. Still, I pictured the play again and added more detail, a welter of sticks jutting into my path, the scrape of my skates as I nailed a sharp turn. The pop of my knees as I dropped to store power. I saw the rink through the cage of my helmet, the bulk of the goalie, his stick on the ice. I drove straight toward him, controlling the puck, and?—

"Hey, dumbass! Move!" Someone honked and blew past me, flipping me the bird. He cut in front of me, and I realized we were moving. I laid on my own horn and crept up a few inches. In my head, the puck flew off and I tossed my stick. I lunged for the goalie and he lunged for me, and I landed the first punch straight in his padding. The ref blew his whistle. The crowd chanted Fight!

I slumped over the steering wheel, limp, shoulders shaking, laughing like a fool in the middle of traffic. Even in my fantasies, I couldn't catch a break. What would it take for me to break through for real?

"He gets the puck," I growled, feeling sillier than ever, but if there was one thing I didn't do, that was give up. I didn't care what it took, or how dumb I felt: this year would be my year. This season. This cup.