In The Cold

It is a cool October night in Toronto. Inside Scotiabank Arena, the opening game of the regular season is about to begin. Game One. Toronto Maple Leafs vs. Montreal. 7:00 P.M. Breaths—ragged, sharp, held back or forced out—mingle beneath the harsh, dazzling blue-white lights. Thousands of voices fill the arena. Too many to count, yet somehow perfectly in harmony. The lights flicker on and off, and all those voices merge into a single, resonant heartbeat. Silence— Explosion. “Montreal’s number 10 carries the puck into the zone! We can see a TML defenseman charging in for the steal—he misses! Both sides are battling in front of the net! Montreal’s number 10 shoots again—” “Goal!” The commentator’s voice trembles with excitement. “That makes it 4–0. Montreal leads on the road!” A streak of blue flashes across center ice. It is almost painfully bright. “On the TML bench is head coach Pelivar Harvey. This is his fifth season since taking over during one of the team’s darkest periods, and it could very well be his last.” TML’s attack breaks down.Montreal steals the puck inside the zone. Pelivar Harvey stands behind his players, expressionless beneath the oppressive gloom of the arena. He says nothing, simply waiting for the camera to move on. “The Montreal crowd is absolutely erupting. We’re also seeing some players who missed last season with injuries—one of them is expected to return in the next game.” Montreal’s number 10 launches into another counterattack, accelerating past center ice until he is almost staring down an empty net. A clean, decisive shot. “The camera cuts to Montreal’s women’s team captain, Ryder Hart. Their star player. Montreal’s women’s team has performed significantly better than the men’s side, and Hart in particular leads the PWHL in both scoring and puck control. Her presence here tonight clearly serves a purpose.” In the shadows, Ryder Hart’s unnaturally blue eyes track the puck as it tears across the ice. The shot veers off course, TML’s defense races back.The goaltender gets a glove on it. “TML’s bench looks frustrated as well. And there he is—the young player they just signed this season, Iris Brooks. He was spotted by the team’s management during development play, but he doesn’t make the starting lineup tonight.” Light moves across Iris’s face. Players flash across the ice. Blue and white jerseys cut through one another, dividing the shadows into narrow strips of pallid light. Iris watches. Her eyes burn with the focus of a hawk. “TML fails to establish an attack inside the zone. Montreal has the puck again, facing an empty TML defense. Will they get another one?” “TML is catching up! Two players are racing for it—they’ve already crossed center ice, and neither is slowing down!” “Montreal shoots—” Crack. The puck slams into the post. Almost at the same instant, the two players collide and crash into the boards with a dull impact loud enough for the entire arena to hear. The first half is over. 4–0. “Hell, did you see that? Number 9 isn’t coming back for the second half.” Laura Avery sits sprawled in her seat, legs crossed, expensive fabric creasing beneath her suit jacket as she idly toys with the drawstring of her hoodie. Ryder doesn’t answer.Her gaze moves slowly across the entire rink. Laura continues. “There are two defensemen left on the bench. Eight and eleven. Eleven should be fine if they put him in.” A woman in a suit approaches. “Captain Hart, the general manager is waiting for you upstairs.” Ryder doesn’t get up immediately. Her voice is cool but steady. “Why?” “Eleven has more experience.” Ryder rises and walks past Laura. Laura shifts aside. As Ryder passes, her voice drifts back, carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “You should pick eight. That’s what they’ll do.” Laura’s protest follows after her. “Oh, come on. You don’t even know him.” The cool night air slips almost imperceptibly into the corridor. As Ryder passes the TML home locker room and heads toward the staircase at the far end, she hears Harvey’s voice. “I want you watching this goddamn puck. Stay focused. If you can’t do that, what the hell are you doing out there?” He drives his marker into the tactics board hard enough to make it tremble. Iris rests one hand against her chin. Her thumb unconsciously rubs against the spot where her canine presses. Then Harvey announces the replacement. She stops. Her eyes fix on him as his mouth opens and closes. “Jett. You’re going in.” The player whose name is called is already eager. He pulls the Maple Leafs’ home jersey over his head. That blinding blue. The players take the ice. The second half begins. “Both teams make adjustments for the second half. TML sends number 5, Jett Bennett, in as the replacement, while Montreal opts for the younger number 8, Schnette Salic—” Laura turns toward Ryder, who has returned from upstairs looking even more withdrawn than before. She gives her an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Seriously?” “Compared with either nine or eleven, eight is less likely to get emotional.” Ryder pauses.There is a trace of contempt in her gaze. “He should’ve been out there in the first half.” “Montreal’s number 8 carries the puck! Facing TML’s defense, he passes to number 3, who’s in a better position—” “Shot! Goal!” “5–0!” The players in white gather together, pure against the ice like fire rising from a frozen wasteland. Ryder leans back. There is something innate in her gaze. A hunger for victory. “This is getting ugly for TML. They still haven’t managed to establish any meaningful offense, and their defense continues to break down.” “At this point, keeping the puck out of their own net and ending the game before the score becomes even more painful may be TML’s best option.” Pelivar Harvey feels as though the ceiling of the arena might collapse directly onto his head. His skull throbs. Almost in resignation, he sweeps his gaze across the bench before leaning toward his assistant coach. “Let the ones who haven’t played get some experience.” Iris meets his eyes. “Five minutes remaining—oh! TML is making another substitution!” “With only five minutes left in the game, TML sends in their new signing, number 7, Iris Brooks. He’ll play forward.” In front of her is a defeat almost too ugly to look at. Behind her are defeated teammates. Disappointed fans. Iris stands between the two. Then she launches herself over the boards and onto the ice. The wind screams past her ears. “Chris! There!” She points to a spot on the ice, sending Chris—who should be playing up front—back to cover it. It is the first adjustment she makes. And the only one. “Montreal’s number 10 has the puck again! Closing in on the zone, and—” The commentator stops. “What just happened?” Like a shadow, Iris appears behind number 10. Her stick snaps forward. The puck changes hands in an instant. For the few seconds it takes Montreal to realize what has happened, Iris is already moving. She crosses the red line. The puck flies at terrifying speed toward Montreal’s net— “GOAL!” For one moment, the entire world seems to shrink to the quiet sound of the puck striking the back of the net. She sees the Maple Leafs fans leap to their feet. Her teammates swarm her. Hands grab her shoulders.The weight of helmets presses against her. Then she turns sharply. One finger to her lips. Not yet. 5–1. Ryder straightens slightly. Her gaze follows the scratches left behind by Iris’s skates. “Brooks takes the puck and drives straight into Montreal’s zone! The Montreal player chasing from behind is blocked by Chris Emongard!” “Brooks is alone!” “Sharp angle—” “GOAL!” 5–3. “Montreal tightens the defense! Brooks has the puck—he breaks through the Montreal defense all by himself!” Another goal. Montreal looks as though the color has been drained from their faces. The arena erupts with the loudest roar of the night. “5–5!” “Brooks ties the game with one minute left in regulation! He gives TML a chance to force overtime!” But Iris still has one finger pressed to her lips. Not yet. Forty seconds. Chris passes. Iris bursts out from the wing beside Montreal’s number 10. She takes the puck. Breaks through. Goal. 5–6. Thirty seconds. Iris. Steal. Breakaway. 5–7. Twenty seconds. Iris. Through pass. Sharp angle. 5–8. Ten seconds. Iris. Breakaway. 5–9. Pelivar stares in disbelief, both hands clasped over his head. But— it still isn’t over. Iris steals the puck. Turns. Accelerates. And fires—— The buzzer sounds. ——Goal. 5–10. The entire arena falls silent. For one suspended moment, people from opposite sides of the rink are struck by exactly the same emotion. Shock. Then a scream ignites somewhere in the crowd. Another follows. And another. The entire arena explodes. The cheers become something physical, crashing over Iris in wave after wave. Her teammates shout into her ears, words overlapping until they become indistinguishable. Hands grip her shoulders. Someone is yelling that he has just created a miracle. “5–10!” the commentator shouts, rising to his feet. “What else can you call this except absolutely astonishing?” Amid the gray, defeated shadow hanging over Montreal, Ryder Hart remains perfectly still. She watches Iris Brooks surrounded by TML players. When he smiles, the tips of his canines show, like the teeth of a sand tiger shark that has forgotten to hide its hunger. A rising star. And when Iris happens to meet her eyes— Something fierce ignites in Ryder’s blue eyes. Something almost violent. New. Repulsive. She burns cold.