Page 1 of Defend Her Heart

AGE SIXTEEN

My hockey bag bounces against my back, heavy and yet calming, as I walk into the rink. It’s the kind of weight that doesn’t drag me down. It steadies me like an anchor, tethering my thoughts into submission, quieting the noise in my head. The bag hangs across my back the way a weighted blanket pins you gently to your bed, telling you it’s safe to stop bracing.

Walking into the rink always has the same effect on me: peace. In a world where I wasn’t good enough to make my parents stick around, hockey has always been my one constant. The one thing that has never let me down.

Here at the rink, I’m not the son who wasn’t enough for his parents. I’m not the big brother constantly letting down his little sister. And I’m not the grandson who is looked at with pitying eyes.

No, here, I’m someone my team can count on. Steadfast loyalty, unwavering discipline, and an absolute beast on the ice because I channel every bit of rage and hurt I feel into the game that has saved my life.

If it wasn’t for the clean sheet of ice and small rubber puck I smack around on a daily basis, I’d be smacking people instead. It’s what I did when my dad left, and it’s what I did again when my mom left after my sister, Charlotte, was born. I was barely eight years old when she walked out, but the anger and hatred coursing through my body was like an animal dying to be unleashed from its cage. So I unleashed it.

I destroyed things. I destroyed people. I was on a dark path, and I’m sure I would have ended up behind bars by now if it wasn’t for my grandfather. With his support, and the help of a therapist, I learned to channel those feelings into something positive. There were countless nights spent outside in the backyard, taking slap shots until my hands were raw and aching, picturing my parents’ faces on the Shooter Tutor goalie that was strapped to the hockey net.

I worked through those feelings for years, becoming an even better hockey player than I already was. And now, I’m one of the top prospects in the country and I haven’t even started my sophomore year. My parents may have let us down, but it’s because of them I’m the player I am today. Their leaving was my fuel.

Throwing my bag against the boards, I walk up to some of my teammates who are watching the girls’ team practice before ours.

“What’s up, Smith?” our goalie, Ryan, asks.

But I don’t answer him. I can’t answer him.

My eyes are fixated on the dark-haired girl, stickhandling with insane precision through cones that are barely spaced out enough for the puck to fit between. She moves her wrist and the puck with such ease, I’m mesmerized by her skill.

“Who is that?” I ask, not daring to take my eyes off her.

“That’s the new girl from Wisconsin. She’s fucking sick. Better than half the guys on our team.” Ryan chuckles to himself. “Honestly, we could probably use her with how shitty we’ve been playing.”

He’s not wrong. It’s only summer, so the games don’t necessarily count in terms of league play, but seeing as we’re the best prep school in the country for hockey, we really need to get our shit together before the season starts.

People come from all over the United States and Canada to play here. Minnesota isn’t one of the best states for hockey by chance. The schools here are built differently. I’m not just talking about the prep schools either, although they’re in a class of their own. I’m talking about public high schools, too. If you weren’t born with skates on, you were pretty much born in the wrong state.

“No kidding. She has silky mitts, that’s for sure.”

My gaze follows her every movement. It’s the end of practice so they’re working on their individual skills, but I’ve never seen a girl play like this before. Hell, there are very few guys who can stickhandle like that. There are some badass players on the ice, but none come even close to what this girl can do.

As soon as she’s finished stickhandling, she moves to the front of the net and grabs some loose pucks from inside the goal. She sets herself up in between the hash marks, just below the tops of the circles, and starts firing off slap shots at the net.

Every single puck goes bar down.

“Holy fuck.” This time it’s my best friend Luke’s voice I hear, but I still can’t look away from the ice.

This girl is a fucking dream.

After she fires her last shot, I see her make her way to the exit near the bench. Without thinking, I jog over to the door before she reaches it and open it for her.

She steps off the ice, and I close the door behind her. Just when I think she’s about to ignore my existence and head to the locker room, she stops.

My heart pounds as I wait for what she’s about to do next.

I don’t know why the hell I’m acting like this, but I feel sweat start building on my neck as my nerves ramp up. You’dthink I was meeting Sidney Crosby or something with the way my heart threatens to beat out of my chest.

With her back still to me, I watch as she unsnaps her helmet and slides it under her arm. She removes her glove next, bringing her hand up in front of her and pushing her hair back, before sliding it down her luscious ponytail.

Turn around. Please, for the love of god, turn around so I can see you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the mystery girl turns so we’re standing face to face.

And she’s as every bit remarkable off the ice as she is on.