The arena was a quiet beast at night, humming with the low thrum of generators and the occasional creak of settling metal. I’d been here for hours, long after the last of the staff had left, the blue glow of the video monitors casting long shadows across the empty seats. The game tape from last night’s loss played on loop, my fingers tapping restlessly against the desk as I rewound the same sequence for the third time. Something about the angle of Mara Solís’s glove side bothered me—how she’d dropped too early, left that top corner exposed. I’d watched it enough to know it wasn’t a fluke. It was a habit.
I capped the dry-erase marker in my hand with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty room. The whiteboard behind me was a mess of Xs and Os, my shorthand for the Wolves’ defensive breakdowns. I didn’t need to be here. Not really. But the alternative was going back to my apartment, where the silence would be louder than the arena’s hum, and the trade deadline looming over my head would be all I could hear.
The door to the video room swung open without warning, the hinges groaning. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. The scent of her shampoo—citrus and sharp—hit me before her voice did.
“You’re still here.”
Mara Solís. Of course it was her.
I swiveled in my chair, the wheels squeaking against the floor. She stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her expression unreadable. In her hand, she held a single sheet of paper, the edges slightly crumpled like she’d been gripping it too tightly. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She never did. She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her, and dropped the paper onto the desk in front of me.
“Read it.”
I didn’t touch it. Not at first. I just looked at her, at the set of her jaw, at the way her fingers twitched at her sides like she was resisting the urge to snatch the paper back. There was fear in her eyes.
I picked up the paper.
The email was addressed to management, cc’d to the coaching staff, and signed by Callum Redd. The subject line read: Urgent: Misconduct Incident – Voss & Solís. My stomach dropped before I even started reading. The words blurred together at first—inappropriate conduct, locker room altercation, unprofessional behavior—but the timestamp at the bottom made my blood run cold. Six weeks ago. The night I’d stepped between Callum and Mara when he’d cornered her after practice, his voice low and venomous, his fingers digging into her arm. The night I’d told him to back off, and he’d laughed in my face before walking away.
I looked up at Mara. “This is bullshit.”
She didn’t flinch. “Obviously. But it’s also attached to this.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a USB drive, tossing it onto the desk beside the email. “Footage. Edited. Just enough to make it look like we were the ones who started it.”
I didn’t touch the drive. I didn’t need to. I knew what was on it. Callum’s version of events—selective angles, missing context, the two of us framed as the aggressors. The kind of thing that would get both of us traded before noon tomorrow if management bought into it.
“He’s trying to bury us,” I said, my voice flat.
Mara’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “No, Kieran. He’s trying to bury you. I’m just collateral damage.”
I stood up, the chair rolling back with a screech. “You think this is just about me?”
She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “Isn’t it? You’re the one with the expiring contract. You’re the one who’s been on the trade block since December.”
I clenched my jaw. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t make this any less of a grenade with both our names on it.
“We need to find the unedited footage,” I said, my voice low. “Before this goes any further.”
She didn’t move. She just stared at me, her face unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned and walked over to the whiteboard, her fingers tracing the edge of one of my diagrams. “You think it’s still on the server?”
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “It has to be. Callum wouldn’t risk deleting it. Not yet.”
She turned back to me, her eyes locking onto mine. “Then we find it. Tonight.”
I almost laughed. “You think we can just waltz into the server room and—”
“I think we don’t have a choice,” she cut in, her voice sharp. “Because if we don’t, we’re both gone by morning.”
I stared at her, at her hands clenched into fists at her sides, at her breath coming just a little too fast. She was scared. And for the first time since she’d walked into this room, I realized I was too.
The storm hit before we could make it to the parking lot.
I didn’t even notice it at first—just a distant rumble of thunder. But then the lights flickered, and Mara’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down at the screen, her face tightening.
“Shit.”
I didn’t need to ask. The way her shoulders tensed told me everything. “The plows?”
She nodded, her thumb swiping across the screen. “Dispatch says nothing until after dawn. The roads are already icing over.”
I looked past her, through the glass doors at the end of the hallway. The parking lot was a sheet of white, the snow falling in thick, relentless sheets. The wind howled, rattling the windows.
Mara pocketed her phone, her jaw set. “We’re stuck.”
I didn’t answer. I just turned back toward the video room, my mind already racing. If we couldn’t leave, we sure as hell weren’t going to sit around waiting for Callum’s frame to stick.
Mara followed me without a word, her boots clicking against the tile. The door to the video room swung shut behind us, sealing us in with the hum of the monitors and the weight of what was coming.
I sat back down at the desk, pulling up the arena’s server directory. The interface was clunky, outdated, but I knew my way around it. Mara leaned over my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. My pulse jumped.
“Where do we start?” she asked.
I pointed at the screen. “Locker room cameras. Six weeks ago. Timestamp matches the email.”
She nodded, her fingers tapping against the desk. “He’ll have hidden it. Probably buried it under a folder labeled something innocuous.”
“Like Equipment Inventory,” I muttered.
Mara’s lips twitched. “Or Staff Meeting Notes.”
I shot her a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
She shrugged, but there was no humor in her eyes. “I’m not. But if we’re going down, I’d rather go down fighting.”
I turned back to the screen, my fingers flying over the keyboard. The server was a maze, but I knew its shortcuts, its blind spots. Mara watched over my shoulder, a constant hum at my back.
“There,” she said suddenly, her finger jabbing at the screen. “That folder. Player Evaluations.”
I clicked it open. Inside was a single file, timestamped six weeks ago. The name was a string of numbers—no description, no context. Just a code.
I double-clicked.
The video loaded slowly, the buffer wheel spinning in the corner of the screen. And then it started playing.
The locker room was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering. Mara stood near her stall, her back to the camera, her shoulders tense. Callum was in the frame, his posture aggressive, his voice low. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I didn’t need to. I remembered.
Then I stepped into the frame.
I moved between them, my body blocking Callum’s path. My voice was a growl, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. Callum laughed, said something I couldn’t make out, and then walked away. The video cut off.
Mara exhaled sharply. “That’s it? That’s the whole thing?”
I rewound it, my jaw tight. “No. There’s more. There has to be.”
I scrolled through the timeline, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. And then I saw it—a jump in the footage. A glitch. A cut.
“Here,” I said, my voice low. “This is where he edited it.”
Mara leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “Can you recover it?”
I didn’t answer. I just started typing, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts. The server was old, but it wasn’t stupid. If the unedited footage was still here, it was buried deep.
Minutes ticked by. The storm raged outside, the wind howling like a living thing. Mara paced behind me, her boots scuffing against the floor. I could feel her impatience, her frustration, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.
Then, finally, I found it.
A hidden folder, buried under layers of administrative files. Inside was a single video file, timestamped the same as the others. I clicked it.
The unedited footage played.
It was longer. Messier. Callum’s voice was clearer now, his words sharp and cutting. Mara’s responses were terse, her body language defensive. And then I was there, stepping between them, my voice loud enough to echo off the locker room walls.
“Back off, Callum.”
“Or what, Voss? You gonna hit me?”
“I don’t need to hit you to make you regret it.”
The video kept playing, uncut, unfiltered. It was all there—the way Callum had grabbed Mara’s arm, the way she’d yanked free, the way I’d stood my ground until he’d finally walked away.
Mara was silent beside me. I could feel her staring at the screen, at the raw, unedited truth.
“This is it,” I said, my voice quiet. “This is what we need.”
She didn’t answer. She just reached out, her fingers brushing against mine as she took the mouse from my hand. She rewound the footage, her eyes locked on the screen.
“We send it to management,” she said, her voice steady. “First thing in the morning.”
I nodded, but my mind was already racing ahead. This wasn’t just about the footage. It was about what came next. About the trade deadline, about Callum, about the fact that we were still trapped in this room together, with nothing but the storm outside and what we’d just uncovered between us.
Mara stood up suddenly, her chair rolling back with a screech. She walked over to the whiteboard, her fingers tracing the edge of my earlier diagrams. Then, without a word, she grabbed the dry-erase marker from the tray and uncapped it.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She didn’t look at me. She just started drawing, her hand moving quickly, precisely. A diagram of the locker room. The positions. The angles.
I stood up, moving to stand beside her. She didn’t stop me.
She drew a circle where Callum had been standing. Another where she’d been. And then, with a sharp, decisive stroke, she drew a third circle—right between them.
Where I’d been.
I stared at the board, at the way she’d mapped it out, at the way she’d annotated the sightlines, at the way she’d made it clear, without saying a word, exactly what had happened.
And then I realized what she was really drawing.
Not the incident.
Not the footage.
But the truth.
The marker hovered in my hand, the cap still off, the tip pressing lightly against the whiteboard. Mara stood beside me, her breath shallow, her eyes locked on the diagram. I hadn’t meant to draw it like that—hadn’t meant to make it so precise, so detailed. But there it was, in stark black and white: the position of her skates at the moment Callum had grabbed her arm, the angle of her body as she’d twisted away, the way I’d stepped in front of her without hesitation.
I’d drawn it like I’d memorized it.
Like I’d been studying it for weeks.
Mara’s fingers twitched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. I could see the moment she realized what I’d done—the widening of her eyes, the hitch in her breath, the way her gaze flicked from the board to my face and back again.
Neither of us said anything.
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I could hear the hum of the monitors behind us, the distant creak of the building settling into the cold. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows.
I should have said something. Should have explained, or deflected, or something. But the words stuck in my throat. Because the truth was, I had been watching her. Not just tonight. Not just in the locker room six weeks ago. But all season. Every game. Every practice. Every time she stepped onto the ice, I’d been tracking her movements, her angles, the way she positioned herself in the crease. I’d told myself it was professional. That it was just part of being a goalie—knowing your opponent, anticipating their next move.
But it wasn’t.
Not really.
I’d been watching her because I couldn’t stop.
Mara’s lips parted, like she was about to say something, but no sound came out. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She looked like she was standing on the edge, like one wrong step would send her tumbling.
I wanted to reach for her. Wanted to close the distance between us, to pull her against me and tell her it was okay. That we were okay.
But I didn’t.
Because we weren’t.
And neither of us was ready to admit what that meant.