It was 1992 when everything changed. Your family moved to Staten Island, and that meant starting over in a brand new school. The first few weeks were the hardest. You barely spoke to anyone. The halls felt too big, the faces too unfamiliar. You missed your old friends, your old routines. Most of all, you missed hockey.

Your dad had been a famous hockey player back in Brooklyn, and he passed his love for the game down to you. You weren’t just a fan—you played too. Hockey made you feel strong. It gave you purpose. But at this new school, you didn’t even know where to sign up.

When you finally found the coach and asked to join, he blinked in surprise. “You’re a girl,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure he heard right.

You stood tall. “And I’m a good one.”

He raised an eyebrow, then gave a small smile. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The day of your first practice, you walked into the locker room with your hockey gear slung over your shoulder. That’s when the stares started. Some of the boys muttered under their breath. A few laughed. It was clear they weren’t used to seeing a girl on the team.

Then he walked up to you.

The Brian Quinn. Or as everyone called him—Q. He was the team captain, with warm brown eyes that squinted when he smiled. You didn’t know who he was at the time, not really. You just knew he was attractive… and surprisingly polite.

“Hey,” he said with a small grin. “You might be in the wrong room.”

You met his eyes, standing firm. “No,” you said calmly. “I’m in the right one.”