The suitcase clicks shut under my palms, the metal latches catching like they’re reluctant to let go of the familiar. I don’t blame it. I’ve never been away from home for a whole month before- nevermind on some college campus that is half-empty in the middle of July, with only hockey kids and a handful of summer-class students shuffling around. 

Mom hovers in the doorway to my room, with her arms crossed. 

“Monty, you’ve checked everything twice already, get some sleep there is no need to stress out.” She says. 

“I will,” I lie automatically. My brain’s skating circles, all speed but no grace. “Just making sure.” 

She steps inside, fingers brushing the top of my duffel. “You’ll do great. And even if-” 

“Mom,” I cut in gently. “Please don’t say ‘even if I don’t get a scholarship.’ Not tonight.”

Her mouth twists, half smile, half worry. “Fine. I’ll just say I’m proud of you. Always.”

I swallow around something too big for my throat, nod, and she leaves me with the quiet of the house and the glow of the streetlights bleeding through my blinds.

I need this. 

Not because I want to brag about skating drills or good stats or whatever. I need it because the thought of Mom working overtime again makes my stomach knots. Because I’m seventeen and working two part-time jobs already and still never feels like enough. Because six scholarships-only six- are hanging like golden tickets above this whole program, and I’m desperate enough to reach for one even if it means bruises and early mornings and pushing past every limit. 

Morning comes fast. 

The sun’s barely risen, the air thick with that summer heaviness. Mom’s already in the kitchen. My little sister, Rosaley, is half-asleep at the table, her hair sticking out in a million directions. 

“You look like a science experiment gone wrong,” I tell her, ruffling her hair.

She tries to glare but yawns instead. “Bring me back something cool from the campus.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. College air, Put some in a jar.”

Mom snorts into her coffee. “Ignore her. She thinks she’s hilarious.”

But Rosaley just grins at me, all gap-toothed and unbothered.

I load my bags into the trunk of the old Civic, the hinges creaking. When I close it, I catch Mom watching me, her expression soft but tight around the edges.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, leaning in for a quick hug.

“I know you will,” she says into my shoulder. “Call when you get there.”

“I will.”

The campus feels too big.

Too empty.

The dorm building they assigned us is old brick, the kind that looks sturdy but smells like stale air and floor polish when I step inside. A couple guys are already dragging their gear up the stairs-sticks, bags, coolers like they’re moving in for a year instead of four weeks.

I find my room-203C-push the door open, and exhale. Two beds, two desks, one small window. My roommate’s not here yet.

I drop my stuff onto the bed by the window.

The door swings open behind me.

A guy in a Leafs hat steps in, backpack slung over one shoulder, hockey bag dragging behind him. He nods once, sharp and friendly. 

“You Montgomery Bell?” he asks.

“Yeah. You?”

“Evan Cho.” He offers a hand. “Roomies, I guess.”

We shake. His grip’s firm, confident.

“Are you ready for this thing?” he asks, tossing his hat on the other bed.

I let out a breathy laugh. “I hope so. Kinda need to be.”

Evan gives me  a quick look, not pitying, just understanding. 

“Yeah. Same.”

A beat passes. Then he grins. “Wanna go check out the rink before orientation? Scope out the competition?”

I sling my stick over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Let’s go.”

Evan and I step onto the ice like we are sneaking into a sacred place- quiet, cold, and with that familiar scent of frozen air and rubber mats. My nerves loosen the second the blades bite down. I glide forward, letting the chill settle into my lungs. Evan fires a puck towards me and I catch it, stickhandling lazily as we settle into a rhythm. 

“Feels good,” Evan says, circling around. “Better than pacing the dorm, anyway.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, sending the puck towards the boards and skating after it. “I just need to get out of my own head.”

We’ve only been out here maybe ten minutes when a voice cuts through the quiet. 

“You two are on the wrong rink.”

I turn, coasting to a stop. A guy stands at the gate, arms crossed, expression flat, a black skate bag slung over one shoulder like it’s a part of him. He’s tall, sharp-featured, with a scar that runs from the left side of his nose down to his jawline just below his ear. It’s not subtle. Hard to look at without wondering what caused it. His accent somewhere European? Eastern European? 

“We…uh didn’t know” I say, gripping my stick a little tighter. 

He points at the big whiteboard by the entrance. 

“Figure skating is rink one, Hockey is rink two. It is very clear.”

Evan mutters under his breath. “Guess we’re illiterate now.”

I shoot him a look, then glance back at the guy. “Sorry, really. We’ll move.”

The guy uncrosses his arms finally, shifting the skate bag as steps onto the rubber mat. “I am Wolfgang,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” I nod. “Montgomery. And this is Evan.”

Wolfgang’s eyes flick between us, unreadable. The scar doesn’t move with his expression-it just sits there.

We start gathering our pucks, Evan grumbling quietly as he scoops them up. I’m bending to pick up one off the ice when Wolfgang speaks again. 

“Montgomery.”

I straighten. “Yeah?”

“You fall onto your inside edge too easily. “Your balance,” He tilts his hand back and forth. “It is sloppy.”

I blink. “What? No one’s ever said that to me before.”

His expression doesn’t change, not even a hint of apology. 

“Then no one has been looking.”

Evan steps forward, raising an eyebrow. “And what, are you a hockey player or something?”

“No.” Wolfgang sets his skate bag down on the bench. “I am a figure skater.”

Evan’s eyebrow shoots up. Mine probably do too.”

“Oh,” I manage. “Right. Okay.”

Wolfgang nods once, almost like he’s satisfied with the correction. Then he kneels to tie his skates with silent, practiced speed. 

Evan nudges me with his elbow as we finish packing up.

“Dude,” he whispers. “We just got critiqued by a figure skater.”

“Yeah,” I say, unable to stop glancing back at Wolfgang. “And I think he was right.”

Evan and I climb the stairs back to our floor, both of us still smelling faintly like rink air even after the walk back across campus. The hallway is quiet-way too quiet for building housing fifty hockey players. Maybe everyone else is napping or freaking out. 

We get to our room and Evan kicks off his shoes and flops onto his bed with a groan. 

“Dude I’m starving,” he mutters. “Do you think they’ll have snacks at orientation? Like, real snacks? Not the sad pretzel sticks in a tiny cups kind.” 

I grab a clean T-shirt from my piles and toss it at him. “Put on actual clothes first. You look like you lost a race against a Zamboni.”

He doesn’t move. “Monty. Listen to me. Snacks.”

I roll my eyes and head for the bathroom down the hall.

The shower is weak, lukewarm, and makes weird sounds when the other guys in other stalls shift their weight. But it gets the job done. By the time I’m back in our room toweling my hair dry, Evan’s finally changed into jeans and a loose Leafs tee, his dark hair still damp.

He looks at me as I pull on my own shirt. “So. Wolfgang.” 

I freeze for half a second before forcing a scoff. “What about him?”

“Are we just gonna ignore the fact that he roasted your balance in, like, five seconds flat?”

I throw my towel at his face. “Shut up.”

He dodges, laughing. “I mean-dude. Sloppy? Inside edge? That was brutal. And kinda of impressive.”

“I told you to shut up,” I say again, but I’m smiling this time. Barely.

Truth is, it’s been replaying in my head since we left the rink-his tone, matter of fact and sharp, like he didn’t hesitate for even a moment.

“You think he’s older than us?” Evan asks, shoving his wallet into the pocket. “He had, like, a ‘been through stuff’ vibe.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Maybe.”

“And that scar-”

“Evan.”

He lifts both hands. “Right, right. No guessing a guy’s tragic backstory before orientation.”

We stand there a moment, both of us listening to the muffled footsteps echoing from down the hall. More players must be arriving; doors are slamming, voices raising. The energy feels different now-anticipation, nerves, maybe a little desperation.

Orientation is in twenty minutes. 

Evan grabs his lanyard from the desk. “Ready? Or do you wanna stare dramatically out of the window for a while first?”

I shove him towards the door. “Let’s go before you start narrating my life.”

As we walk down the hall and toward the stairs, I catch myself thinking not about drills or scholarships or the weight waiting back home-but about the figure skater with an unreadable expression and a scar that almost dared me to do better. 

I shake the thought off. Focus, Montgomery.

Orientation first.

Everything else later. 

The lecture hall is colder than the rink we were just on, some form of passive aggressive air-conditioning strategy to keep everyone awake. Evan and I slide into two seats near the middle, surrounded by clusters of tired looking players in fresh athletic gear, all trying to look more confident they probably feel. 

The overhead lights hum. A couple of coaches stand near the front, talking quietly among themselves. One of them-a tall gut with a buzz cut and a clipboard-keeps glancing around the room like he’s disappointed in us and we haven't even done anything yet. 

Evan leans over. “Bet that guy plays favorites.”

“He doesn’t even know us yet. 

“Excatly. Which means he’s already picked someone to hate.”

Before I can answer, the door at the front bangs shuts. Everyone straightens immediately as if the sound alone has a whistle built inside it. A woman steps up to the podium, short hair, sharp eyes, posture so perfect it makes me sit up straighter without meaning to.

“Good evening,” she says, voice clear and clipped. “I’m Coach Dana Markham, director of the Toronto Elite Hockey Intensive. If you’re in this room, it means you earned a spot. Don’t take that lightly. 

Coach Markham scans the rows, and for one terrifying second I swear she makes direct eye contact with me. “Over the next month, you will train harder than you have in your lives. You will be pushed. You will be evaluated. And at the end of the program, six of you will receive full-ride scholarships.” 

Six. Hearing it out loud makes it feel even smaller.

Evan taps his foot rapidly under his seat. 

Coach Markham continues.

“We are not looking for perfection. We are looking for growth. For work ethic. For those who rise when everyone else folds.”

She pauses like she is expecting applause or fainting or both. 

A coach from the back clears his throat. “Also, don’t wreck the facilities. Please. Last session we had incidents.” He doesn’t elaborate. Probably for the best. 

Markham moves on. “Tommrow, you’ll be assigned to your training groups. Tonight you’ll receive your schedules and meet your conditioning leads.”

She gestures to a table at the side of the room. Stacks of printed packets sit waiting. 

A hand shoots up the back. A guy with a messy blond mop of hair doesn’t even wait to be called on. “Are the scholarships decisions based on the individual performance, or on team drills too?”

Mackham’s jaw tenses. “Both.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Cool”

“It is not ‘cool’, Mr. Lawson. It is challenging. That is the point.”

The coaches start calling us row by row to get our packets. When our row stands, my legs feel heavier. The table is a mess of names and color-coded schedules. The assistant running the list scans the sheets. “Bell, Montgomery?” 

“That’s me.”

She hands over a packet thick enough to double as a weapon. “Good luck,” she says. 

Evan gets his next. “Cho Evan?”

The assistant gives him a sympathetic look. “Uh…early mornings for you two.”

He groans. “Monty, if I die, tell my mom I fought bravely.”

We return to our seats just as Coach Markham wraps up. 

“Your performance starts now,” she says. “How you carry yourselves on campus, how you treat staff, how you navigate pressure, everything matters. Dismissed.”

Chairs scrape back. Voices rise immediately. The room floods towards the exit. 

Evan slings his packet under his arm. “So, you ready for this?”

I look down at my schedule-at the drills, ice time, the conditioning blocks that make my lungs ache just reading them.

I inhale.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I am.”