Melting the Ice Captain

Skye's POV The tryout at Northcrest University was nothing special. It was just a handful of bored reporters in the seats, a couple of cameras set up along the boards and some men in suits at a table who looked like they were counting down the minutes until they could leave. They called it an Open Invitational Tryout, but it was clearly a desperate PR stunt to get some headlines and fix the athletic department’s money mess. A few of us women had shown up anyway. I stood by the boards, gripping my stick so tight my knuckles hurt and tried not to let the bitterness choke me. I was here chasing a spot on the men’s team, not because I thought I was some hotshot better than everyone else, it was simply because I had no damn choice. Back home there was no elite girls’ team worth a thing, just a bunch of boys who treated the rink like their personal playground. I spent my whole childhood getting bruised, shoved into the boards and ignored like I was some annoying little sister who wouldn’t leave (which I actually was to be fair). Every shift I fought for ice time, every goal was earned the hard way, usually with a black eye or a sore jaw to show for it, but now I'm better. And now here I was again, still proving I belonged. Story of my damn life. The guys on the ice were loud and full of themselves, skating around like kings. They ran through warm-up drills with easy passes and big shots, laughing and chirping at each other the whole time, completely ignoring the women. Then they called the first woman out. She looked decent at first. She was tall, quick on her skates, with a determined look on her face, but the second the puck dropped, the boys stopped playing nice. One of them poked it away like it was nothing and when she chased hard she lost an edge on a sharp turn and slammed into the ice, making the guys burst out in laughter. One skated past her and said something that made the rest howl even louder. She got up slowly with her face burning red and brushed the ice shavings off her jersey. I could clearly see the embarrassment in every movement, and I'm pretty sure everyone else could. She skated off to the side and didn’t come back out. After that, the other two women who were still waiting their turn just shook their heads. They whispered to each other for a minute, then grabbed their bags and bailed, walking straight out of the arena without looking back. I didn’t blame them one bit, it looked brutal out there, and they’d already seen enough to know how this story usually ended for us. But I stayed put. Because running away never got me anywhere before. Might as well see how bad this particular beating gets. “Brooks!” one of the coaches finally shouted. “You’re up. Full sequence. Let’s see what you’ve got.” My heart slammed against my ribs as I stepped onto the ice and felt that familiar cold rush hit my face, sharp and clean. The cameras swung toward me. The guys were still smirking, especially that massive defenseman built like a fridge with legs. He looked thrilled at the chance to make an example out of the last girl stupid enough to try. Come on then, big guy. Let’s see if you hit harder than the boys back home who thought the same thing. The whistle blew and then the puck dropped. He charged straight at me like a pissed-off bull, shoulder down, aiming to flatten me into the boards and give the cameras a good show. The other players moved in too, closing the space fast. Then everything slowed down, the way it always does when s**t gets real. I saw every detail, the way his weight tipped too far forward, that tiny blind spot on his left, the exact second his stick floated out of position. Sorry, big guy. Not today. My skates bit hard into the ice, I spun at a crazy 90-degree cut, slipping right past him clean. He smashed into the boards with a heavy thud, his face bouncing off the glass as the sound echoed loudly through the quiet arena. I didn’t stop. The puck felt alive on my stick now. Another guy rushed me from the side, but I already saw the lane opening up. I pulled the puck through my skates, deked hard left, then exploded back right. My legs burned as I pushed faster, cutting through the ice like it owed me money. A third player tried to block the net, lunging at me with his stick out, but I picked the spot up high, then snapped my wrist. The puck flew clean and rose at the last second, ripping into the top corner with a satisfying clang against the post. The goal light flashed and then there was dead silence. I glided to a stop near the blue line, with my chest heaving and legs shaky but still holding me up. Sweat stung my eyes under the helmet. The big defenseman was peeling himself off the ice, muttering curses and wiping at his mouth where a small cut had opened up. The rest of the guys just stood there staring, with their sticks loose in their hands and their stunned faces. The reporters were on their feet now, flipping their notebooks open, with their cameras going wild with clicks and flashes. One of them muttered “Holy s**t” loud enough for me to hear. At the table, the men huddled over their tablets. One of them wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, while another kept tapping the screen like the numbers might magically change if he refreshed enough times. The head guy finally stood up slowly, looking pale and a little pissed, like someone had just ruined his carefully planned afternoon. “By NCAA rules…” he said, voice rough and hesitant, “the top performer in the combined agility and scoring metrics… we have to offer her the scholarship.” The words hung heavy in the quiet arena. I did it. A full ride on the men’s team at Northcrest. I skated slowly toward the bench, with my heart still pounding hard, and as I looked around I realized that this was never supposed to get real. It was supposed to be a stupid PR stunt that let me say I tried, but I had just blown it up in their faces. And deep down, I knew what came next was more bruises, more shoving, more guys who’d rather see me fail than admit I could keep up. The cameras kept rolling as I headed off the ice. My legs felt heavy now, the adrenaline starting to crash. I knew right then the real fight wasn’t over. It was only getting started. And this time, there was no backing out.