Guard My Heart

Chapter 1

Frozen Hearts

The rink is warm. Scorching August heat just beyond the metal walls is doing its best to put the air conditioners through their paces. Which would be great if they were athletes instead of machines on the verge of breaking down. The ice is so soft that you’d think we were in Florida instead of Connecticut. It’s hard to get a good grip with my blades when the ice is watery, and my legs ache from the effort as I slide from side to side. I yank my helmet off and grab a water bottle from the top of the net. Cold water cascades over my cheeks as I squirt my face, which must be as red and shiny as candy apples right now.

Matt yells to me from the other side of the ice. “Ryleigh, pickup game?”

I’m the only goalie at stick time this afternoon, so all that really means is offense against defense. They’ll sit on the bench and take turns, three on three, and me. There are only nine skaters: seven guys, ranging in age from twelve to twenty­something, and two other girls, who play on the fourteen-­and-­under in-­house league. Matt and I are seniors at the same high school outside Danbury. We should all be at a swimming pool or the beach, but if you love the ice, it’s a kind of addiction. Matt only plays on the high school team, though. He’s more into the investment club than hockey.

I wave my glove to tell him yes, and he gathers some extra pucks so we won’t have to stop to retrieve them every shot.

The scoreboard clock counts down the last twenty minutes of stick time. Sometimes the rink lets us go over if it doesn’t need the ice right away, and today there’s nothing scheduled until later. It all depends on whether Earl is running the Zamboni. He opens those gates exactly on time as if the whole world might collapse into anarchy if he’s one second late.

We start playing, but the only shots I need to worry about are Matt’s and Otto’s—­he played club hockey in college. I dump the shots I catch with my glove back out, and they start all over again so we never stop unless I call for a break. My chest is tight from the humidity despite the two puffs I took from my inhaler before I came on the ice. We’re a few minutes in when the familiar clang of a door opening and closing rings through the rink from the far side.

A tall guy wearing an orange jersey slides onto the ice. He drops a puck and takes shots on the empty net at the other end while the rest of us stop and stare. This kid can skate. Even out there completely alone, he shines. The smoothness of his turns, the way he angles himself on his blades, it’s like watching a work of performance art or an eagle soaring.

Matt rolls to a stop beside me. “Whoa,” he practically whispers.

I glance at him and smile.

“He’s better than you, Ryleigh.”

I should be annoyed, but the awe in his voice is a total compliment.

“I would hope so. He’s wearing a Danbury Junior Hat Tricks practice jersey,” I say.

Matt nods, his gaze still fixed on the wonder before us.

The girls pull up beside us. “Who is that?” one of them asks.

Matt and I shake our heads as the kid sends a slap shot to the net from the blue line with so much force, I’m surprised the net doesn’t dislodge.

“Wait,” the twelve-­year-­old boy says, “look at his jersey. Is he really in the NAHL?”

“Looks like it,” Otto says as he rolls to a stop next to me. We’re clustered now, like a gaggle of fans.

“What’s the NAHL?” one of the girls asks.

“North American Hockey League,” Otto says.

“Tier Two juniors,” I add. “There’s only one tier and the farm teams between him and the NHL.”

“He’s practically guaranteed a D1 college slot,” Matt says. He skates down to talk to the kid.

We all wait, watching the precious seconds of stick time wind down. But my lungs could use the break. The kid shakes his head, and Matt skates back to us.

“I asked him to join, but he said he didn’t want to shoot on a girl.” He shrugs at me.

“Whatever,” I say. “Let Mr. Miracle-­on-­Ice enjoy his half of the rink. We’re losing valuable time.” I replace my mouthguard and clamp down on it.

Otto and Matt laugh, and we start back up. But we’re all trying a little harder now, as if we have something to prove to the hotshot misogynist across the ice who doesn’t think I’m good enough to waste his stick time on. Although the way I played last year, he could probably make me look like a squirt player up against prime-­time Sidney Crosby. I should be grateful, I guess, but it stings like that moment you realize you’ve met a wasp. This year is my final chance to get a D1 scholarship. I can’t blow it like last season. I’ve already promised myself that I won’t let anything distract me from my goals. Operation No Distractions, as my dad and I call it.

The buzzer sounds and Earl bangs open the Zamboni doors. Everyone taps my helmet to say thanks as my chest heaves trying to get enough oxygen. The younger kids skate off, but Otto, Matt, and I gather pucks and wait for the Zamboni to make its first pass at the edge of the rink. We move the heavy net against the boards so it’s out of the way. Across the ice, the hotshot moves the other net. The three of us skate off from our side and he skates off from his.

The younger girls chatter in the locker room as we change.

“I can’t believe he wouldn’t shoot on you, Ryleigh!” one says.

“I bet you could shut him down with one eye closed,” the other chimes in, and they laugh in agreement.

I smile. It’s nice that they think so highly of me, but maybe that kid was afraid of hurting me. He’s not your average player. He’s an elite player destined for big-­time hockey. Still, it bugs me that he assumed I wasn’t tough enough to take a beating.

When I emerge into the late-­afternoon sun, I stop and squint while my eyes adjust. My leg pads are tied together and slung over one shoulder, and my hockey bag hangs from the other. My giant hockey bag that’s big enough to curl up on when we are stuck at rinks waiting for locker rooms. My right hand holds my keys and my left holds my stick. To my left, someone leans against the building at the edge of the automatic doors, one foot up against the wall. Dark hair falls around his face as he stares at the phone in his hand. A hockey bag with the Jr. Hat Tricks logo rests at his feet. Two top-­of-­the-­line Bauer sticks lie across it. He stops scrolling and looks at me with eyes the color of a strong Americano.

I step off the curb.

“Hey,” he says, “you were really good out there.” His voice sounds like a Coke slushie, cool and crisp. I stop and look at him. It didn’t seem like he even knew we were on the ice with him. He pushes off the wall and stands straight.

Based on my reflection in the glass door, I’m still beet-­faced and my once neatly braided hair is a halo of wispy, dark frizz.

His gaze takes in my size and then the logo on my bag, the Connecticut Polar Bears. There aren’t the same kinds of junior leagues for girls. I’m as high as I can go before college. Most guys like him will play juniors for two years after high school before they start college so they can get bigger and faster first.

“What level do you play?” he asks. He has a slight accent. I can’t place it, but the words sound softer and more melodious than typical English.

“Triple-­A,” I say. A lot of my teammates will go D1 or to a high-­end D3, though not as many as his teammates.

He tilts his head. “U16, right?”

I take a breath. “I only look twelve. I’m seventeen.”

He laughs, though I didn’t say it to be funny. Everyone thinks I’m younger than I am. Mostly because I’m built like the flyer on a cheer squad, not a goalie. My head barely rises above the crossbar, and even with the bulkiest pads, I hardly block any of the net just with my body. But my face looks more fourteen than seventeen, too.

“You’re solid,” he says with a grin, dimples flashing like tiny stars on his cheeks.

I purse my lips together and nod thanks and walk to my car.