I wake before my alarm. The nerves have already settled into my stomach, fluttering like trapped wings. It's not the usual kind of dread. It's sharper, tighter, like something is about to shift.

Today is the day the tryout results go up.

For a moment, I consider not going. I could stay home, crawl back under the covers, and let someone else check the list for me. Let fate unfold without my eyes watching. Out of sight, out of pain.

But then I think of George Hale.

His face flashes in my mind—those unreadable eyes and the casual confidence in his voice when he said, “See you tomorrow.” Like it wasn’t a question. Like he already knew I’d be back.

No. I won’t give him that.

He doesn’t get to own the ice while I sit in silence.

By the time I get to the rink, a small crowd has already formed. They huddle near the corkboard just outside Coach Halder’s office, shoulders touching, heads craning to see the white sheet of names pinned up like a judgment.

I push through. I hear whispers behind me, but I tune them out. My fingers tremble as I scan the list.

Lane, Cassandra, Left Wing.

I'm in.

My breath leaves me all at once, as if I had been holding it for days. I stumble back, dazed, and give room for the girl behind me to take her turn. I let the noise fade around me.

From the corner of my eye, I see him.

George.

He’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, helmet dangling from one hand. He’s already seen the list.

He doesn’t smile. Just raises a brow and says, “Congrats, Lane.”

“You too,” I reply, my voice flat as ice.

Before I can say anything more, Coach Halder claps his hands. just once, loud enough to slice through the chatter.

“If your name’s on that list, get changed. Day two starts now.”

No time to celebrate. No time to breathe.

Inside the locker room, the air has changed. Yesterday there was hope. Today, there's hunger. The girls are quiet, their faces set. No jokes, no small talk, just the rhythmic sound of equipment being pulled on, pads locking into place, laces tightening.

There’s no fear anymore. Only fire.

We step onto the ice like a storm breaking loose. The rink explodes with motion, blades tearing into the surface, shouts bouncing off the walls, whistles slicing through the air. Coach doesn’t let us settle. He keeps switching up the drills, the partners, the pace.

“Lane with Hale.”

Of course.

I don’t even react. I just glide over, head down, stick ready.

George meets me at center, already grinning. He moves like he was born with skates on, too smooth for someone his age.

“Let’s just get through this,” I mutter.

“Wouldn’t dream of slowing you down,” he says.

The first drill is passing. He sends the puck to me, hard and clean. I trap it and send it right back. We fall into a rhythm—no talking, no glancing, just the thwack of the puck and the hiss of blades.

Next is a two-on-one rush. I carry the puck, and George falls into position on my wing. The defender closes in.

I don’t even look.

I know where he is.

I pass. He shoots. Top corner.

Coach nods from the bench. “Good work.”

George bumps my shoulder, light as a tap. “Nice feed.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Then it’s board battles.

Coach keeps us paired. Of course he does.

George pins me against the glass, trying to use his height and strength. I brace, legs locked, using every muscle I’ve got to fight back. He’s powerful, but I’m pissed.

And pissed wins.

I twist, duck under his arm, and steal the puck clean from his skates. I’m already skating away when he calls out.

“Was that even legal?”

I glance over my shoulder. “Coach didn’t blow the whistle, did he?”

He laughs. A real one this time. Not smug. Not guarded. Just surprised.

We don’t stop. Drill after drill, we move together like we’ve been doing it for years. There's still friction between us, but it’s not the same. It's no longer a wall. It's heat.

We’re testing each other.

And something about that makes my chest feel tight.

After the final whistle, Coach calls us in. We circle around him, still panting, our bodies steaming in the cold air.

“You’ve all earned your place here,” he says, voice low but firm. “But earning your place doesn’t stop today. You build. You get faster. You get smarter. You get tougher. Practice tomorrow, six AM sharp. Don’t be late.”

The girls begin peeling away. Some head for the locker room, some linger to stretch or chat. My limbs feel like lead. Every muscle aches, but it’s a good pain. the kind that tells me I survived.

I’m sore, but I’m smiling.

I bend down to unlace my skates when I notice George still standing at the boards, slowly removing his gloves. He’s not looking at anyone else. Just me.

I skate past him without a word, but he calls out.

“You skated different today.”

I slowed down but didn't stop.

“So did you.”

“I meant what I said yesterday,” he says.

Something in his tone makes me turn.

He’s not smirking now. He’s not trying to get under my skin.

He’s just standing there, serious.

“I’m not trying to step on anything sacred,” he says. “I just want to play.”

That hits harder than I expect.

I look at him. No helmet. His hair’s damp with sweat. He’s just a kid, same as me. Trying to find his place in something that doesn’t make room easily.

I nod once. It’s all I can give him. Then I skate off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Do I believe him? Maybe.

But if we’re going to be paired on the ice, he better be ready.

Because I’m not going easy.

And if he’s going to wear number thirteen, Conner’s number, he better understand what it costs.

This isn’t just a game to me.

It never was.