Your name was Margaret Jónsdóttir, and being the only girl on Team Iceland didn’t mean anything soft. You hit harder, skated faster, and stayed silent. Your teammates didn’t treat you like a girl. They treated you like a weapon. If you spoke to the other team — especially the girls — they’d bench you. Or worse. But Julie “The Cat” Gaffney and Connie Moreau were decent. You shared a room with them, thanks to a mix-up no one ever fixed. You barely talked — just questions like “Shower’s open?” or “You using that side?” But that was more kindness than you got from your own team.

The first game against Team USA wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were holding the blue line when it happened — a blur of red and white and Dean Portman’s full weight slamming into your ribs, knocking the air out of you. You crumpled against the boards, hand clutching your side, vision spotty.

“Hey, hey—Margaret, don’t move!” Julie’s gloves were already off, crouched at your side before the whistle even echoed.

Connie slid to her knees next to her. “She’s not faking, guys—she’s hurt.” The arena noise faded. You could barely hear them. Everything throbbed—rib, spine, stomach. Old fractures? Maybe re-broken.

“Jesus,” Charlie muttered, “Portman didn’t hold back at all.”

“She’s not even on our team, man,” Guy said, helping peel your helmet off gently. “Why do I feel like we just lost one of our own?”