The suicides felt endless. Each sprint down the ice tore at my lungs, my skates carving desperate lines into the glassy surface with jagged screeches that bounced off the empty rafters. Sweat traced fiery paths down my spine, soaking through my jersey until the fabric clung cold and heavy against my skin. Every pivot burned. Every breath tasted like exhaustion and memory.
I was fifteen again in those flashes—stealing ice time after the boys’ league finished, skating alone under dim lights because my coach had told me I wasn’t ready for advanced drills. “Girls don’t hit the same, Danica. You’ll just slow them down.” So I stayed late, night after night, until my toes went numb and my lungs tasted metallic. I took illegal checks from players twice my size who wanted to teach the intruder a l
