I’m pretty sure I could skate before I could run. I don’t remember the first time my little feet hit the ice, but I know deep in my bones that I’m right.
From the very first time the icy chill of the arena pushed a shiver through my toddler-size body, it was game over. I might not remember much from those first few trips to the rink, but I do know that they became an addiction as I grew older—something I needed to do to feel.
Hockey isn’t just a sport to me—it never has been. It’s a way of life. My everything.
I was raised by a single mother, so money was always tight. She worked two jobs—both of which still barely paid the bills. Our house was small, but it was ours. The fridge had just enough to keep my belly full. But I didn’t miss a single season of hockey. Not since my very first practice. My mom made sure of that. And to this day, I’m still not sure how she pulled it off.
But now? Now there’s a void inside of me that I can’t fill. An empty feeling that threatens to spread like a disease, eating away at me more and more each day.
Working for Adam White, training athletes who will go on to do things I will never have a chance to, will only be rubbing salt in the wound. But I’ve never been a quitter. Going back on my word isn’t an option.
So here I am, standing in front of WIT with my freshly sharpened skates thrown over my shoulder and my stomach hanging between my knees.
I wipe my palms off on my leggings and scold myself for getting so nervous. It seems ridiculous to be scared right now—I’ve played in the Olympic games and been under more pressure than some people will ever experience. Yet I haven’t been able to calm my racing pulse since the moment I slipped my arms into my new White Ice Training embroidered track jacket this morning.
If my old teammates could see how I’m acting, I would never live it down.
The sound of sneakers scuffing the pavement behind me makes every muscle in my body tense up. Great. I’ve been caught staring at the front doors like a terrified child waiting for their mom to check the closet for monsters.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe in a massive lungful of air through my nose before letting it out of my mouth. Once I’ve relaxed as much as possible, I open my eyes and look over my shoulder.
Adam’s lips part on a grin when I meet his gaze. He’s shaved since the last time I saw him, making him look a few years younger than I know he really is. Not like he looks his age in the first place. He has a naturally youthful appearance, but I think he owes most of that to the genuine happiness he wears like a second skin.
There may actually be some truth behind the whole scowling takes decades off your life saying I was always told as a teenager. Adam certainly won’t have to worry about that.
“Good morning, Scarlett,” he says, and I notice the tray of coffee cups in his hand when he extends it toward me. “I didn’t know how you liked yours, so there’s an assortment.”
I double blink at the Starbucks cups.
“If you don’t like coffee, I can have Brielle bring you something else when she comes in,” he offers a second later, sounding far too genuine to be considered normal.
With a quick shake of my head, I grab a cup labelled as a plain black coffee and hold it to my chest. “Thank you.”
He eyes the cup in my hand before dangling a pair of keys between us. “Let’s get to work, then.”
Adam makes quick work of opening the doors and leading us inside before setting the extra coffees down on the reception desk and showing me around.
The tour is quick, but he doesn’t seem to miss anything. We move around the arena with precision, and by the time he’s leaving me to put my stuff away in the staff-only locker room, I’m feeling more comfortable.
It surprised me how quickly I relaxed during the tour, but I guess it shouldn’t have. I’ve spent more time in locker rooms and training facilities than I have at my own home. It should be second nature to find comfort in this setting by now.
Adam left me with instructions to meet him on the ice after I’m finished here but didn’t elaborate on why. I can only guess that it has something to do with why he asked me to come in today before the rink even opened.
I shut my locker door and sit down on the wooden bench lined along the opposite wall. My skates rest on the floor in front of me, but I make no move to slip them on. Instead, I fidget with the elastic band holding my unruly curls up and out of my face and spend far too long picking at the edges of the sports tape I placed around my shoulder after my shower this morning. I do everything and anything I can to avoid doing what I’m supposed to be doing and hating myself for it.
With a groan, I drop my head back against the wall and fight the urge to stomp my feet like an insolent child.
“You can put them on by the ice if you want.”
I jump at the deep voice, my hand flying to my chest. “Shit. You scared me.”
Adam chuckles, the sound smooth yet raspy in a way that makes the hairs on my arms rise. He’s leaning a hip against the doorjamb, one hand in the pocket of his track pants, and watches me with an open expression that does little to hide his curiosity.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on you and make sure everything was okay. You’ve been in here for a while.”
I inwardly wince. “It didn’t feel like that long.”
“If you’re not feeling comfortable, we can skip the ice for today,” he offers. “I can have you go sit in on a few sessions instead. Willow isn’t in until Wednesday.”
I’m quick to protest. “No. You brought me in here today for a reason. You wanted to test me, right? See what I can and can’t do?”
“Yes, that was my intention. But I’m not the guy that’s going to push you into something you’re not ready for. Help guide you, maybe. But not force.”
My hackles rise even as I try to brush off the hidden challenge in his words, and I snap, “What makes you think I’m not ready?”
He lifts a brow, looking from me to the skates at my feet and then back at me again. “Did you forget how to put skates on?”
“No. I didn’t forget how to put skates on.”
“A bit rusty when it comes to lacing them, then?”
I’m not an idiot—I know when someone is trying to anger me enough into doing something, but I’m also not above falling right into the trap. With a scowl, I adjust my socks and slide my left foot into my skate. Just like I remember, it’s a perfect fit.
Filled with the urge to prove him wrong, I stare at him from beneath my eyelashes and quickly tie the laces. It’s muscle memory at this point, like riding a bike or driving a car. A ripple of satisfaction moves through me.
Adam’s mouth pulls at the corners as he watches, but he doesn’t say another word. I appreciate that he doesn’t interrupt me, but I keep that tidbit of information to myself.
In what seems like no time at all, I have both skates on and tied perfectly. “Happy?” I ask.
He grins. “Very. Are you?”
Standing, I shift my weight on my feet in an effort to get comfortable with the sudden change and then nod.
“Let’s get to it, then. We have half an hour before everyone else starts showing up,” he says, nodding to the door.
I’m suddenly flooded with determination, having hopped that first small hurdle. One that I hadn’t been able to on my own. It’s a small thing, but a win is a win.
I don’t think twice before following him.
My heart thumps in my chest as I stand on the edge of the ice. A nervous sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I’ve never felt like this before. Not with this. Not with hockey.
My stomach tightens with fear, pure terror at the thought of diving back into this world. Of letting it consume me again.
Memories come crashing in, bringing me back to that game. To the pain—both physical and emotional—and how broken it left me.
There are three minutes left in the third period. I’m dripping sweat. It’s in my eyes, hanging off my nose. I shake my head and let it fling away.
My grip on my stick is near-painful as I rest the blade on the ice and hold the stare of the Mississauga Bears first line centre. She settles her stick across from mine and grins wickedly. I ignore it.
The puck drops between our blades, and our shoulders touch when we move forward, but it’s me that scoops the puck and passes it back between my legs. It’s my seventh consecutive faceoff win this period.
Cassidy Lion spits my name as I skate around her and lead my team toward the Mississauga zone. My teammate passes me the puck, and it hits my blade before two Bears players cover me, pushing us toward the boards. I battle them for the puck, pushing at them and kicking the puck, trying to dislodge it.
Another player moves behind me, and I recognize the red and gold on their jersey as one of my teammates. There’s no time to feel relieved. We’re still outnumbered, but by some miracle, I manage to kick out the puck and push it out and away with my stick, hoping a Blaze player is ready to collect it.
The pressure on my shoulders alleviates as everyone skates off toward the puck, and I spin around, ready to do the same.
I don’t see her. Not until it’s too late. A blindsided hit.
The pain is instant. By the time I realize what’s happening, my helmet is already smacking the boards, and my body follows. I gasp, winded.
Crumpling to the ice, I fight back a wretch at the pain in my upper body. I can’t tell what’s wrong. It hurts everywhere. Am I bleeding? Did I hit my head?
A cry escapes me when I try to lift my arm and pull my helmet off. Searing pain slices through my shoulder. No. Fuck.
I shut my eyes and let the first of many tears escape.
“Are you okay?” Adam asks gently. I wince at the memory and ignore the phantom pain in my shoulder.
He’s standing a few feet away, his face tight with concern. I swallow and force a nod.
I can do this. I can do this. This isn’t the same as before. One step in front of the other, Scarlett. Slowly, I move my skate forward and push myself into a slow glide.
Adam’s eyes watch me as I push off my other skate and move further down the ice. It’s like breathing after years of suffocating. Each swipe of my skates across the ice has the debris clearing from my lungs.
Pride quickens my pulse. It’s such a small win, but the importance of it doesn’t escape me. I did it.
“Can you do a couple laps?” Adam shouts when I start creating a distance between us.
Can I do a couple laps? I scowl. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t reply, and I tune him out, focusing on not letting my knees shake like a newborn deer. I’m not even going fast, but I’m already panting.
And as we continue with our first session, it only gets worse. Half an hour later, I’m huffing, “I quit.”
Adam’s laughter echoes around the rink from his place by the boards, and I halt my wheezing just to flip him the middle finger. With my fingers digging into my waist, I lean back and try to catch my breath.
Sweat pools at the back of my neck, my forehead, and between my boobs. The idea of falling to my belly and placing my cheek to the ice is an attractive one. I haven’t worked this hard in months, and it shows.
We didn’t touch on anything beyond simple stick handling and skating tests, yet I feel like I’ve just run a marathon with weights tied to my ankles. There’s a bright feeling of success there too, but I don’t pay it too much attention. There’s still so much to do.
“No you don’t. Catch,” he says before throwing a bottle of water at me. I catch it and unscrew the cap before drinking the entire thing in one go.
“I wasn’t under the impression that I was the one in need of training,” I state.
Keeping my eyes on him, I skate to the boards and set the empty bottle by the exit, the muscles in my side straining and crying as I do. There’s a twinkle in Adam’s brown eyes that makes me narrow mine.
“You’re not. But what kind of boss would I be if I didn’t know your strengths and weaknesses before throwing you into a position to teach someone else?”
“A shit one.”
Adam tips his head back and laughs freely. I’ve noticed that he does that a lot—laughs without a care in the world. More than anyone else I know. “You’re honest. I like that.”
“Do you drink liquid sunshine from a bottle every morning?” My brash words only make him laugh harder. “That was a serious question.”
“Oh, I know,” he says before placing his hands on the boards behind him and pushing himself up to sit on the small surface. His cheeks are stained a light pink from the cold as he pats the spot beside him.
“There are perfectly good seats behind you.” I point to the stands on the other side of the ice.
He shrugs, and I frown, refusing to move. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to grab at my shoulder as a soreness awakens. Wrinkles grow between his eyebrows as he watches me begin to panic. Suddenly, realization floods his features.
“Tomorrow,” he begins. I stare at him blankly. “Meet me here at the same time. We’re going to work on that shoulder. I need to know how bad it is.”
I’m about to protest when he pins me with a look more serious than I’ve seen him wear so far. Realizing that this isn’t a battle I want a part in, I roll my lips and nod.
My agreement is incredibly reluctant, but agreement nonetheless.
“Okay. Tomorrow it is.”
