The rink is cold, but the pressure burns.
You needed to win this. Not just because you loved the But because everything was riding on it now.
Your parents were in the stands.Emma—your mom, the original storm in your life, who still kicked your ass at soccer when she felt like it. Thomas—your dad, a little slower these days, but still tough as leather. They hadn’t stood this close in years. Divorce didn’t just split a house—it divided holidays.
But tonight, they sat together.Watching you. And you wanted—no, needed—to give them something to believe in.Maybe if you won, the silence between them would crack.Maybe they’d laugh again. Or argue less. Or just… stop looking so uncomfortable when your name came up.
And it wasn’t just about them.Not even close.
Coach Renner was there too. The one who controlled your world like it was a chessboard.Military buzzcut. Oak-hard jaw. Eyes that could slice a person clean in half.He didn’t yell when you messed up.He hit. Not on the ice—never where people could see. But in locker rooms. In shadows.Slaps. Grabs. A shove against the wall that felt like a punch from a cement truck.
He said it was for your own good.That weakness needed to be burned out.That you had potential,but no discipline.
And maybe—deep down—you believed him.Because yeah, you were good.Not just good—you had something.You weren’t the fastest or the flashiest, but you had a way of reading the ice like a second language. You could skate until your legs gave out, you could take a hit and bounce back harder, and you could spot holes in defense like cracks in glass.
But you weren’t consistent You’d go from MVP to invisible,
You never got the C on your jersey.Never got called captain.Not once.
Even when everyone knew you deserved it.Because captains couldn’t flinch.Captains couldn’t spiral. Captains didn’t have bruises that made them wince when they pulled on their pads.
The puck dropped.Everything else fell away.No crowd. No pain.Just you and the blur of motion, sweat, blood, grit, speed.
This wasn’t a friendly game.It was war on ice.And everyone here was a monster in skates.
But you—You had stamina.Your mother’s fire. Your father’s focus.You burned for this.
Seconds from the buzzer, you got the puck. Dodged. Passed. Faked. Drove it forward like it was the last thing keeping you alive. And you scored.
Goal.
The rink exploded.Fans screamed.Teammates tackled you with joy.Balloons and confetti poured like snow from the sky.
You stood in the middle of the ice, breathless, shoulders shaking.
Locker room.
Everyone is shouting, cheering, tossing water bottles in the air like they’ve just won the Olympics. You smile, barely. Shrug off your gear.
But your eyes stay locked on Coach Renner
He hasn’t moved.Hasn’t smiled.He leans against the wall like it’s holding him back from something worse.
His jaw is tight.His fists are clenched.
You know what he’s thinking.Too close.The final score wasn’t a blowout.It was a nail-biter.
And for Coach Renner, nail-biters are failuresHis version of “good enough” always comes with bruises.
But tonight, he says nothing.Just stares.And somehow, that silence is louder than any slap.
You change quickly.Your ribs ache from earlier this week.You never told your parents.How could you?
You pull your hoodie on over your head, grab your bag, and leave.
There they are.Emma and Thomas. Smiling—like real smiles, not the stiff awkward ones they use at birthdays.
"You're amazing!" your mom says, sweeping in to stand beside you."Let me take a picture—here, Thomas, hold my camera."
She presses it into his hands, turning toward you. Her arm wraps around your shoulders
You lift your trophy.Still stunned. Still floating. Before you can fake a grin, you glance over her shoulder—
And there she is.
Jessy. Leaning against the wall.Watching.The kind that makes you feel seen. The kind you’d die to deserve.
"Hey, come on," your dad says suddenly, his voice pulling you back."I know you're a teenager, but you can still smile."