The scrimmage was less than two hours away, but the house felt heavier than the ice ever could. I sat cross-legged on my bed, gear bag half-packed, staring at the thin wall that separated me from Caleb. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway—every almost-touch that left me aching and unsteady. I needed to focus. I needed to remember why I was here.
So I let the old memories come.
I was eight the first time the boys’ league folded the girls’ program and my father drove me to the pond anyway. “They hit hard, Dani,” he’d warned, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I took my first legal body check at nine and got up grinning, blood on my lip and fire in my chest. By twelve I was the only girl left, earning the nickname “Ice Breaker” after one clean hip check
