Brenna

After a week off from anything hockey-related, it feels good to be back on the ice. From the chill across my cheeks to the smell of artificial ice to the skates on my feet, I feel like I'm back in my realm. My comfort zone. However, if I'm being honest, it still feels strange knowing my coach is my uncle. It's one thing I need to learn to accept. That's what my counsellor told me. I've had two appointments with her already, and I'm picking up on red flags within myself.

Such as my resentment towards my uncle. Although explaining the situation would've been a better route, he had a valid reason. And the approach was paved with nothing but good intentions. Many people disagree with this, but people need to remember we try to make the best decisions we can for our loved ones. I'm allowed to be upset, but I have to understand this from his point of view. The same goes for my mom.

My emotions are valid, and my reaction is nothing obtrusive. Plus, there is always resolution to conflict. It just needs to be talked about and dealt with.

I skate forward, the puck gliding across the ice ahead of me. My palms sweat as I wind up for a slapshot against Drew. It whizzes past him, lodging itself in the top left corner. As I skate behind the net, Drew removes his goalie mask and grabs his water bottle from the back of the net. He squirts some water in my direction.

"Save it for Terrace," he jokes.

Despite my uneasy emotions, his teasing brings a smile to my face. This is one thing I've loved about playing with West Kelowna's hockey team. The majority are welcoming. They don't single me out because I'm a girl. They feel like family.

"Not my job to save the puck," I retort.

Drew snorts, taking a sip of his water. "Touché."

I skate away with a smile on my face. As I return to the back of the line, I inspect Terrace's team. They're a good team. Second in the tournament so far, right behind us. This game will decide whether we go into the final round in first or second place. If Terrace beats us, they'll gain one more point and be in first. That means fewer games for them to play in order to grab gold—if they can keep up their winning streak. They slaughtered Shea's team last night 7-1.

"Checking out the competition? Or are you staring at your boyfriend?"

Blinking, I glance at Hunter, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Hunter points his hockey stick at the left side of the ice, just shy of the penalty box. On the other side of the glass, I see Shea, Jayden, and KJ. They're dressed in their base layer clothing with matching sweaters. Kelowna's colours are black with lighter red and a bluish-pine-green. Their jerseys are a lot like the Kelowna Rockets jerseys, with an emblem of the Ogopogo on the front.

When Shea notices me staring, he raises his hand in a soft wave.

I wave back, unable to hide the smile on my face. Shea's team isn't playing Vernon until later, about an hour after my team's game ends. Him being here to watch my game makes warmth spread through my chest. Although we discussed watching each other's games prior to today, Shea was unsure if he'd make it. Now I can see that was a bluff. His practices are never longer than two hours, and I'm sure Shea, Jayden, and KJ concocted a lie to tell their coach. Probably said they were attending the game to scope out the competition.

Which isn't a bad idea.

It's never easy to predict who will compete for gold in leagues like this. Knowing your opponents is the best way to win.

"Harrison! You're up again. I want to see another puck in the net!"

Tearing my gaze away from Shea, I turn around and stare at Coach.

Coach—Uncle Aiden is always involved with the team. He doesn't stand on the bench and yell like some coaches do. He takes part in the warm-ups, especially before big games like this. Getting into the final round to play for gold is what we, as a team, want. Uncle Aiden enjoys giving each player a pep-talk prior to the game. He has yet to make conversation with me, but I know it's coming.

Forgetting about Shea, Jayden, and KJ, I slam the blade of my stick against the ice and call for Hunter to pass me the puck as I rush forward. Hunter sends me a crisp, precise pass, and I don't think twice. I wind up for the slapshot, and it whizzes past Drew again. Right in the five-hole.

His curse is audible across the ice and through the loud music. Drew despises five-hole goals. He thinks they're for rookie goalies. Not that he's professional or anything. At this point, he believes five-holes shouldn't be allowed in the net at all.

I chuckle as I skate over to the bench. Scooping up my water bottle, I glance at Terrace's team again. They're focused, and it feels intimidating. Despite Terrace being a small town further north in BC, you can't underestimate their skill level. They work like a well-oiled machine. Most of the guys are bulky, too. They know how to throw their weight around without getting penalties.

Today's game will be dirty and rough. If we're going to win, we need to avoid making any faults. That means no wonky passes, unnecessary penalties, or foolish plays. As a team, we have to be cohesive.

Just like I predicted, Coach Jameson skates over to me once he's done speaking to Hunter. When the season started up again after the holidays, things were awkward between us. Knowing he's my uncle is weird, but I'm accepting it. Plus, we've had a few good chats about my dad that have helped. My therapist was right about talking. It's taken the stress from my shoulders, and it's helping me wrestle with my eating disorder. Okay... maybe "wrestle" is the wrong word. I'm not fighting anything. I'm trying to become more aware of my feelings and what's causing this. There are factors at play that I can't control, but I can regulate how I react.

"Harrison," Coach says.

Uncle. Uncle Aiden.

God, why is it so strange still?

"Uncle Aiden." My voice sounds strained, and he can tell because he flashes me a weak smile. I open my mouth, ready to apologize.

He holds a hand up. "Don't apologize. I understand how weird it is."

A small smile crosses my lips. "I should be used to it by now."

Leaning against the boards, he crosses his arms. Shakes his head. "Don't sell yourself short. You're seventeen. That's a lot of years to go without having an uncle." He pauses and frowns. "Sort of, anyway. I was always here. You just didn't know."

Pressing my lips into a flat line, I turn my gaze to the seating across the ice. Shea, Jayden, and KJ are huddled close and inspecting a... I squint a little harder.

A bag of gummy candies?

KJ looks grossed out. Jayden looks like he's lecturing both of them. Shea he rolls his eyes and pops a sour key into his mouth. That's what I think it is, at least. It's difficult to tell from this far away.

Evren, Ella, and Catina should join them soon. Or so I'm assuming. The girls intend to watch the game, and when they see the guys, I'm sure they'll sit with them.

Uncle Aiden follows my gaze. "Ah, the boyfriend showed up to watch the game. Don't think I've ever seen that kid anywhere else but on the ice. Now he keeps popping up like a weed. Came for support, I'm assuming?"

Despite my cheeks flooding with embarrassment, I wrinkle my nose. "Nah. They're just scoping out the competition. We'll be playing for gold, Uncle Aiden. Against Shea's team."

That is questionable. Shea's team's struggling while their back-up goalie adjusts to being their star goalie. They still haven't found a new back-up goalie yet, either, so KJ's felt a bit of pressure lately. Prior to becoming a right-winger, KJ played goalie for a few years. He has some experience under his belt, but not enough to lead to winning streaks or substantial leads in games.

Some rumours flittering around have been entertaining, too. The first one was about Connor. That he would return and bring Kelowna several victories. It made me snort. Fat chance Connor's ever allowed to play in the Central Okanagan again. Most of them, to be honest, were about Connor. They all made me shake my head.

The only rumour I liked was that Catina might test the waters in this league. We haven't discussed said rumour, but I plan on doing so after today's game. Playing against her would be phenomenal, and I wouldn't be the only girl in the league.

Uncle Aiden clears his throat. "It is strange to hear you call me that. After... after knowing for so many years. I've watched you grow up on the ice."

My heart takes a funny twist. It's true. Aiden's been my coach since... well... forever.

Goddamn him. Why did he have to say that?

His eyes turn a little glassy, which mirrors my tightening throat. Finding family, after overcoming the initial shock, fills an empty piece of your heart. One I didn't know was empty. And while I'm still coming to terms with everything, I'm thankful for my family.

Tossing my shoulders back, I clear my throat and tap my hockey stick against the ice. Discussing this topic isn't smart. Not when we're on the ice and prepping for a big game. It makes me emotional. And while there's nothing wrong with emotions fuelling you, my logic side needs to remain stronger. "Don't worry about Shea and I. When we're on the ice, our relationship falls to the wayside. Ice is meant for hockey."

Uncle Aiden knocks his knuckles against the boards. He makes a clucking noise with his tongue. "I'm far from worrying about a relationship messing with hockey. You and Shea are mature enough to separate the two, despite being opponents. Not going to lie, I would prefer having you and Smith on the same team." He removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair. "And Jones and Miller."

I ignore his fantasy team—even if we would be the dream team. "But you're worried about something."

He sighs, crossing his arms. "Connor wasn't happy, Brenna. Matthias and I have done everything we can to help, but Connor will retaliate. You and Shea flipped the script and beat Connor at his own game. It's mortifying and damaging for his ego. You can overcome Connor's retaliation. Smith?" He rubs his jaw. His gaze trails the ice. "That kid deserves to make the NHL. Putting a mark on his record will harm his chances. If Connor does anything, promise me you'll make sure Shea doesn't respond with impractical actions."

A smile curves across my lips. Uncle Aiden knows better than to tell me to maintain the behaviour of a man. It's not my job, nor will it ever be my job. He wants me to have a discussion with Shea. Which isn't a bad idea. Shea can be impulsive, and I would hate to see him be charged for assault. Even if punching Connor in the face is justifiable.

"We'll have a conversation," I say. "If that takes the stress away."

He bumps his shoulder against mine. "The same goes for you, kid."

I snort. While punching Connor is appealing, I'd never take the risk. Fighting is what Connor wants. He wants a reaction that will drag me down with him. That's been his goal since he made the bet with Shea. By now, he should know anything he does won't result in my doom. Nothing a man says or does can drag me down.

"Risking my opportunity on the women's team at UBC is out of the question," I reply. "If I make it onto that team, I could end up playing in the Olympics."

"I can see it."

"Most people can. Including myself." I glance at him, grinning. Although my words sound self-centred, they're true. I have plenty of self-confidence, which isn't a bad thing. So long as you realize hockey is a team sport that one player can't carry, there's nothing wrong with believing in yourself.

Uncle Aiden smiles, then claps me on the shoulder. "Looking forward to the game. Terrace is a tough team to beat, but I think you and the guys can do it."

My eyes flick to where Shea, Jayden, and KJ are. The girls have arrived, and they're all sitting together like I assumed. It makes my chest warm. It's been said many times, but liking Shea is easier than hating him. Together, we've knitted a group of close mutual friends.

Turning my back to the ice, I set my water bottle back on the bench.

Then I return to the warm-up.

It's time to take Terrace down.

*  *  *

Halfway into the first period, we're up 2-0. One goal was shorthanded, scored by Hunter. The other was a power play goal, which Nick scored after a killer set up by me.

But where Terrace lacks in goals, we're lacking in stamina. We're more reactive than proactive. Eventually, Terrace will to score on us. Our plays have been sloppy and there have been too many turnovers.

It's a miracle we're even in this game.

Sitting on the bench, I rest my elbows on my knees and lean over, trying to regain control of my breathing. Sweat drips down my temples and at the nape of my neck. Frustration is also building inside of me. My body is full of bumps and bruises from Terrace targeting me. They know I'm a threat, and after previous games against them, I expected to be targeted. But damn, it hurts—and it'll be worse tomorrow morning. If this is how Connor McDavid feels when he's targeted and shutdown, then I can feel his pain. It's fucking annoying.

After catching my breath, I straighten my posture and take a deep gulp of water. Then I set my water bottle down and turn my attention back to the game, noting how tired my team is. When players are tired, they don't move their feet as much. Plays and passes also become sloppy. Although we have yet to suffer the consequences of sloppy hockey, it's coming. We're weathering an inevitable storm unless we regain some of our energy.

A few minutes tick by before my line is hopping over the board with purpose. We need another goal or a killer hit to light a spark. If I need to do that for my team, then so be it.

Because Terrace iced the puck, the face-off is to the right of their goalie. Hunter takes the draw, and I position myself next to him. I angle my body and hockey stick for the perfect tip-in if Hunter can win the draw.

He doesn't win the face-off. Terrace does, and their forward sends the puck back to their defence. Instead of clearing it and risking another icing call, they make a crisp pass to their left-winger. With a burst of speed, he skates up the ice.

With no hesitation, I skate after him, giving the effort every ounce of energy I have. Exhaustion is creeping into my bones, but there's no way I'm letting him score. Being up by two is where I feel somewhat safe. Having a one-goal lead is never good enough. It gives the opposing team an opportunity to tie the game up. Ties reset the game, and that's the last thing we want. If Terrace ties the game, we're fucked.

Number fifteen, McEwen, is just crossing the blue line and entering our zone with the puck when I catch up to him. Using my body weight, I slam McEwen into the boards. His hockey stick slides in the opposite direction as he falls to the ice. The puck continues to slide along the boards, and I chase after it, ready to start an offensive play.

However, as soon as I swoop around our net, I'm swarmed by Terrace players. While it sends a jolt of triumph through my veins, I also feel concerned. My hit was clean. McEwen had the puck, and I did nothing illegal. Part of the hit was to rile players up, too. What I'm concerned about is if I hurt McEwen. That was never my goal. Riling up the players results in emotions getting the better of them. Penalties are sure to be drawn so long as I don't retaliate. My hit was clean. McEwen had the puck, which means my hit wasn't for no reason.

But shit, I'm panicking a little.

As the players continue to push and shove, my teammates join in. Each player fists an opposing player's jersey, pulling them away from me. The refs get involved, too, but they can't pull away Terrace's largest defenseman.

Jordie Hackthaw pins me against the boards, pressing his forearm across my chest.

"Fuck. That was a dirty hit. But I guess that's what you're like, right? Dirty. How many dicks did you have to suck to get on this team?"

I flash him a sardonic smirk. His so-called burn is juvenile. Hockey players are supposed to be good chirpers. Not shitty ones. "None. That's the good part. What about you? With hands like that, I'm gonna say the refs are included in your suck-fest."

Mine isn't much better, but in order to rile people up, stoop to their level. It pisses them off.

Sure enough, the comment earns me another slam against the boards. It knocks the wind from my lungs, making me gasp for my next breath.

"Shut the fuck up," he spits.

"Make me."

He fists my jersey, bringing our faces close. His deep blue eyes are lit aflame. My actions and words have riled him. "Don't need to. Smith's already doing that. Fucking slut. That 'A' on your jersey suits you."

My face falters. An uneasy feeling seeps into my gut. Guys in the league hearing about Shea and I's relationship is inevitable. So is them using it against me on the ice. I just... I didn't think it would hurt so much.

Or piss me off.

Blinded by rage, I swing my fist. It collides with Hackthaw's gut. He grunts, stumbling backward. I take that as my opportunity to strike again. This time, my fist collides with his jaw.

"Fuck you, Hackthaw. My hit was clean."

He charges at me, dropping his gloves and hockey stick, but Hunter and Nick intervene. Hunter uses his body mass to act as an obstruction between us. Nick fists Hackthaw's jersey, giving him a shove.

"Knock it off, Hackthaw," he says.

Hackthaw looks at me, his eyes still burning with fury. Then he glances at Nick. "Control her. She didn't need to hit McEwen."

Nick releases his jersey. "We're a team. We don't control people. Her hit was clean, too. Get off of your high horse, Jordie. You're better than that."

Using ignorance, Hackthaw removes his helmet and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. Then he stoops down to pick up his gloves. When he's standing again, he levels his gaze with mine. "How does it feel, Harrison? To always need protection? You're not welcome in this league. Get it through your head."

His comment doesn't bother me. Unless we're in a tournament, Terrace and West Kelowna don't play against each other. I don't have to deal with his shit. Plenty of men are jealous of my skills. I wish he could be held accountable for his sexism.

"She belongs in this league," Hunter spits. "She earned her spot just like the rest of us. Get it through your head."

Hackthaw skates away without another word, leaving the rest of us amid a mess of gloves, hockey sticks, and helmets. Players still surround us, but any commotion has died down. Aside from the ref handing out penalties.

Hunter and I exchange a glance as my name, Hackthaw's, and another Terrace player's name are shouted. Although I won't be able to play during the power play, I'm glad we get a power play out of this. Plus, my penalty is for roughhousing. Not the hit.

So, yeah, fuck Hackthaw for thinking it wasn't a good hit.

Hunter taps me on the shins. "I'll score a goal."

A smile curves across my lips. "Do that, please. We need a spark. Otherwise, we're not making it to the gold medal."

Hunter gives me a two-finger salute.

When I skate over to the penalty box, Shea is standing next to it. He gives me a thumbs-up, a cheeky grin on his face.

I look away, hiding my smile.