1992, Minnesota. The sharp chill of the rink hung in the air as you finished lacing your skates, glancing up just in time to see Tammy Duncan weaving across the ice with the kind of smooth, practiced grace the rest of the Ducks hadn’t quite mastered. She wasn’t trying to show off — it was just second nature, the habits of a figure skater slipping through even in hockey gear.

She coasted to a stop beside you, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as the rest of the team scrambled to chase pucks and shout over each other. Tammy nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice easy and honest, but with that signature no-big-deal attitude.

Then you could hear what Goldberg says from next to you on the bench. "Y'know, you shouldn't be here neither should Connie. Go back to figure skating."

"Oh, look who's talking. You've made more excuses and more trips to fast food joints than anyone I've ever met. Right babe?" Tammy snaps at Goldberg before she looks over at you waiting for your input.