Clara Kane was seven years old now, all wild red curls, freckles across her nose, and a grin that could light up the entire Evergreen Hollow rink. She had her father’s blue eyes and her mother’s stubborn chin, a voice that carried across the ice like a whistle, and one unshakable passion: hockey.

From the moment she could walk, Clara had been on skates. First the tiny double-runners that let her wobble across the backyard pond while Everett held her hands. Then real skates at three, ...