There is a thin line between bravery and stupidity, and it usually involves a desperate need to either get something or prove a point.
If someone had told me yesterday that I’d be standing at the edge of an ice rink, holding a hockey stick and balancing on two thin blades of steel, I would have laughed.
Today, it felt like the only choice I had.
But knowing it’s a bad idea doesn’t make the fall hurt any less.
"Take the stick, nerd," Knox had said. "Or sign the log and go home."
I had chosen the stick.
Ten minutes later, I waddled out of the tunnel in a pair of borrowed figure skates I’d practically begged from the equipment manager, Pete.
They felt like stiff leather torture devices wrapped around my ankles. I held onto the plastic boards with both hands, my feet sliding in opposite directions like a cartoon character.
"Looking good, Nora!" Milo yelled from the bench, banging his stick against the plastic. "Nice and stable!"
"You shut up," I muttered with my eyes locked on the ice.
Knox was skating slow circles in front of the net. He had his helmet off, and his dark hair was messy and damp with sweat. He stopped, resting his hands on his stick, watching me wobble toward the open gate.
"You can still back out," he called. "No shame in admitting you’re out of your depth."
"I’m not backing out," I said.
I took a deep breath, let go of the boards, and stepped onto the ice.
But before I could even find my balance, my left foot shot forward like it had a mind of its own. My arms flailed wildly and the hockey stick flew from my grip as I went down.
CRACK
I slammed into the ice, landing hard on my tailbone. The impact rattled my teeth, and the freezing cold soaked right through my jeans.
The bench erupted in laughter. Milo practically fell over, and even a few of the other players from the stands who had waited to watch, couldn’t help but grin.
"Nice try!" Milo wheezed. "Do it again!"
Knox didn’t laugh. He just skated over, stopping a few feet away, looking down at me with his hands on his hips. "You want to sign the papers now?"
"No," I gasped, feeling my tailbone throbbing.
I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The ice was slippery, and my ankles wobbled dangerously, but I managed to stand. I dragged my stick back toward me, using it to balance.
I took two shaky, sliding steps toward the center of the ice, trying to get closer to the net where Knox was waiting.
"Puck," I said, pointing at the black rubber disc sitting near the red line.
Knox flicked it toward me with his stick. It slid smoothly across the ice, stopping a few feet in front of my wobbling skates.
I took a shaky step forward, raised the stick, and swung.
I missed the puck entirely. The momentum of the swing threw me off balance, and I went down again, this time landing hard on my left elbow.
"Ow," I muttered, pressing my forehead against the cold ice.
"Bennett," Knox said, his voice closer now. "Get up. Or quit."
"Get up or quit, Bookworm," Knox said, stepping closer.
"I’m not quitting," I said through my teeth.
I rolled onto my side, ignoring the sharp ache in my arm. Using my hockey stick for leverage, I dug my skate blades into the ice. My knees shook as I forced myself back up. Even with my palms raw and red from scraping against the ice, I refused to stay down.
Knox watched me impatiently at my laughable attempt. He tapped his stick against the ice with an irritating rhythm. "You can’t even stand, nerd. This is embarrassing. Just sign the logs."
"I said, I’m not quitting," I repeated.
I lunged forward, trying to stab at the puck before I lost my balance again. But my ankles gave out immediately, sending me crashing face-first onto the ice. The cold shock hit my forehead, and my stick slid away, spinning lazily across the ice.
From the bench, someone let out a low, sympathetic whistle. "Oof. That one looked like it hurt."
"I’m fine," I croaked into the ice, though my ribs ached and my hands were completely numb.
Knox skated over, casting a shadow over me. He stopped, looking down at me with a look of deep annoyance. He didn’t offer a hand or laugh; he just looked bored.
"That’s enough," Knox said flatly. "You’re a lost cause. You can’t even stand, let alone shoot. Wager’s over. I win."
"The timer isn’t up," I muttered, pushing myself onto my elbows.
"I don’t care about the timer," Knox said. "You’re wasting my time, and you’re wasting yours. Sign the compliance papers, tell Brennan I’m cooperating, and stay out of my way."
He turned his back on me, pushing off the ice with a smooth glide as he headed toward the bench.
Humiliation burned in my chest as I watched him skate away, his broad shoulders squared beneath those heavy pads. He was so full of himself, so convinced that I was nothing more than a minor inconvenience he could easily brush off.
My hand brushed against something cold and solid on the ice... it was the black rubber puck.
My fingers curled around it. I had spent years working in the bakery, lifting heavy trays and throwing fifty-pound flour bags. My arm was the only part of me that didn’t feel like jelly right now.
I sat up, balancing on my knees, and drew my arm back.
"Sheridan!" I called out.
Knox paused, turning his head to look back over his shoulder.
I threw the puck with everything I had.
It went flying through the air, a straight, hard line across the rink. Before Knox could even blink, the black rubber disc smacked him dead in the center of his face, striking the bridge of his nose with a heavy thud.
THWACK!