The Toronto skyline looms ahead, the CN Tower piercing the summer sky like a promise. My heart thuds as the bus crawls through traffic, each red light stretching the wait. I grip the strap of my duffle bag tighter. It’s stupid to be this nervous—right? I’ve played hockey for as long as I can remember. But this is different.

This is everything.

I glance down at my phone. The screen reads 4:27 p.m. One text from Mom sits unread, but I don’t need to open it. I already know what it says. You’ve got this, Monty. Do your best. Love you. She said it a hundred times before I left this morning, her voice all wobbly like she might cry.

“Final stop, Varsity Avenue,” the driver announces.

I stand, adjusting the bag slung over my shoulder. My skates clank against something hard inside, and I cringe. Good start, Bell. Break your gear before the first day.

The campus is quiet as I step onto the curb. Huge brick buildings stretch in every direction, framed by wide lawns and paths winding under towering trees. Most of the students are gone for the summer, but here and there, I spot someone walking with a backpack or lounging on the grass. It feels surreal, like stepping into one of those college brochures they hand out at guidance counseling.

But I’m not here for brochures.

I’m here for a shot.

The dorm building for the hockey intensive is on the far side of campus, and the walk gives me way too much time to think. Only six scholarships. I replay that number in my head, chewing on it like gum. Six out of what—fifty guys? A hundred? I don’t know how many are here, but I do know this: every one of them wants it as badly as I do. Maybe more.

I try not to think about what it’d mean to my family if I got one of those spots. It feels too big to think about, like staring directly at the sun.

By the time I reach the dorm, my shirt’s sticking to my back. A cluster of guys is hanging out by the entrance, some leaning against the wall, others sprawled on the concrete steps. Laughter and loud voices echo as I approach.

“Hey, rookie!” someone shouts. A guy with sun-bleached hair and a wide grin points at me. He’s holding a hockey stick, tapping it against the ground like a gavel. “What’s your position?”

“Center,” I say, my voice steady even though my pulse kicks up.

He whistles, looking me up and down. “You got hands?”

I lift an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The group erupts into laughter and whistles, and the guy grins. “Alright, alright. Tough guy. What’s your name?”

“Montgomery Bell.”

Another guy, this one with dark curly hair, sits up straighter. “Wait—Bell? From that U18 tournament last spring?”

“That’s me,” I say, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Man, you were nasty in that game against Ottawa,” he says, shaking his head.

The blonde guy claps me on the shoulder as I pass. “Welcome to the gauntlet, Bell. Hope you’re ready.”

Inside, the dorm smells faintly of bleach and old carpet. A woman at the front desk hands me my room key and a packet of info about the schedule. My room’s on the second floor, tucked in the corner of a long hallway.

It’s not much—just two twin beds, a couple of desks, and a closet. My roommate hasn’t shown up yet, so I toss my stuff on the bed closest to the window. I pull back the curtain, letting sunlight flood the room.

For a second, I let myself imagine what it’d feel like to be here next year—not for a summer intensive, but as a student. A scholarship would make that possible.

I exhale and glance at the packet on the desk. Tomorrow’s schedule is already making my stomach churn: skills drills, scrimmages, conditioning. There’s no room to slip up.

No room to fail.

But I didn’t come here to fail.

This is my shot. And I’m taking it.

The rink feels cold, a welcome relief from the sticky heat outside. I glide across the smooth surface, pushing a puck in lazy circles as I try to shake off some of the nerves still rattling around in my chest. Tomorrow is the start of the intensive—no turning back now—and the quiet hum of the rink helps calm my nerves.

It’s the perfect place to think, to focus.

I take a deep breath, my skates cutting clean lines into the ice as I slide forward and back, feeling the rhythm in my legs. I try to quiet my mind, but all I can think about is the six scholarships. I can’t afford to mess up tomorrow.

Then, a voice shatters the silence.

“You’re on the wrong rink.”

I freeze, the puck jerking to a stop as I turn my head. A guy’s standing near the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, a skate bag slung casually over one shoulder. His dark hair’s damp from sweat, and his eyes are sharp, scanning me with an expression that’s a mix of confusion and mild irritation.

“Sorry?” I say, frowning.

“You’re messing up the ice,” he repeats, and there’s a slight accent to his voice—something I can’t quite place.

I glance down at the rink, then back at him. “I didn’t know that.”

The guy nods toward the boards, where a large sign clearly reads: Figure Skating: Rink 1 | Hockey: Rink 2, with arrows pointing in opposite directions and another set of doors.

“Oh,” I say, the realization hitting me like a slap to the face. “Guess I should’ve checked that first.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t seem all that mad. Just... bemused. “It’s easy to miss, but it’s pretty clear once you look.”

I chuckle awkwardly. “Yeah, definitely my bad.”

The guy steps forward, lowering his arms. His eyes linger on me for a second, and I notice something I hadn’t before: a scar. A thin, jagged line running from the left side of his nose down to his jawline. It’s old—he wears it like a badge, something he’s lived with for years.

“Name’s Wolfgang,” he says, holding out a hand.

“Montgomery,” I reply, shaking his hand quickly.

The name doesn’t sound quite right on my tongue, but I’m not sure why. I let it pass and bend down to grab my gear and skate guards. I’m about to walk off to the other rink when Wolfgang calls out.

“You know, your balance is a bit off.”

I turn back, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He gestures toward the ice. “You’re kind of sloppy with your edges. You don’t control your stops as well as you could. It’s just a little... off.”

I feel my face flush. No one’s ever told me that before. Ever. “I didn’t think—” I start, but my words trail off.

“I’m just saying. You could probably work on it, especially with your speed.” Wolfgang shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Not that it’s a huge problem. Just a suggestion.”

“Right.” I force a small smile. “I’ll work on it.” I grab the rest of my stuff and start  towards the other rink, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Are you a hockey player or something?”

He stares at me like I’ve asked a stupid question. “A hockey player? No. I’m a figure skater.”

The way he says it is almost like he’s daring me to question it. But I just nod, my mind trying to process it. I can’t imagine how different it must be, gliding around the ice without the heavy weight of a stick or the expectation of a body check.

“Wait, you’re a figure skater?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Like, the full-on spins, jumps, and everything?”

Wolfgang looks at me with a sharp smirk. “That’s usually what figure skating is. I mean, You should try it sometime, Bell. Might teach you a thing or two about balance.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that after I get my scholarship,” I reply with a grin.

Wolfgang gives me a small nod, his lips curling at the corners. “Good luck with that, Montgomery. You’ll need it.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and heads toward Rink 1, his figure skating boots clicking lightly as he walks away.

I can’t help but watch him for a moment, my brain still processing the whole situation. Figure skating. Huh. 

Shaking my head, I push forward to Rink 2, adjusting my stance. Time to refocus. Wolfgang’s advice sticks with me, even if it stings a little. Balance, huh? Maybe he’s right. I’ve got a lot to work on if I’m going to get this scholarship.

Tomorrow’s another day, and I need to bring everything I’ve got.

But for now, I’ve got a rink to myself—and I intend to use it.

The steam clings to the walls of the locker room as I step out of the shower, the sound of running water still echoing in my ears. I towel off quickly, the dampness of the room leaving me a little too cold for comfort. My muscles ache from skating around all afternoon, the weight of the day finally hitting me. I’d gotten through the practice drills without completely embarrassing myself, but Wolfgang’s words are still buzzing in my head. Sloppy. I can’t shake them.

I slip my phone out of my bag, glancing at the screen. One new message from Mom: How’s everything going, Monty? You okay?

My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I tap out a quick reply: Yeah, I’m good. Just getting ready for dinner.

I want to tell her more, to explain what’s going through my head, but I can’t bring myself to do it just yet. She’s already worried enough.

Instead, I hit the call button. The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Monty!” Her voice is bright, but I can hear the edge of exhaustion there, the weight of a long day settling on her. “How’s everything? How’s the camp?”

“It’s good, Mom. Really good,” I say, leaning against the locker, rubbing the towel through my hair. I try to make it sound casual, but I can’t quite hide the tightness in my chest. It’s been a few hours since I got here, but I still haven’t quite settled in. The reality of everything—the pressure, the competition, the whole future hanging in the balance—keeps spinning in my head.

“You sure? It’s not too much? You know, if it gets overwhelming—”

“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” I cut her off, not wanting to hear the worry in her voice again. She’s already sacrificed so much for me. The last thing I want to do is make her feel like this isn’t worth it. “I’m just getting dinner with the other guys. I’ll be okay. It’s just… you know, a lot.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I know, honey. I know. Just don’t overdo it. Remember to take care of yourself.” Her voice softens, and I can almost see her smiling, even though I know she’s probably sitting on the couch, holding the phone in one hand while sorting through bills with the other.

“I will,” I say.

She pauses again. “Your dad’s gonna call you later tonight. He wants to know how you’re doing too. And you know I’m always here if you need to talk. I’m so proud of you, Monty. No matter what happens with the scholarship, you’ve already made us proud.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in my throat. I’ve heard this speech a hundred times, but it never gets any easier. The weight of it presses down on me—how much she believes in me, how much she’s sacrificing so I can have this shot. It feels like too much sometimes. Too big for my shoulders.

“Thanks, Mom,” I finally say, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

“You’re welcome, baby. You’ve got this. I’ll let you go so you can eat. Tell me all about the guys tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. I will.” I force a smile, even though she can’t see it. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Monty. Call me anytime, you hear?”

“Yeah. I will.”

I hang up, but the quiet linger for a moment, like something’s still sitting heavy in the air. I stare at the phone in my hand, wishing I could just be home—just for a minute. But then I shake it off, take a deep breath, and head toward the door.

The guys are waiting. They’re all part of this too. And I’m not here for nothing.

I slip my phone into my pocket and grab my bag, my stomach already growling at the thought of food. As I make my way down the hallway of the dorm, I can hear their voices growing louder. They’re all hanging out near the entrance, talking about the drills, who’s looking good, who’s not. It sounds like they’re getting along. They’re not my competition yet—at least not in any serious way. But I can’t help but feel that pressure crawl up my spine again.

When I push through the door, they look up, the chatter dying down for a second as I walk in.

“Hey, Montgomery!” the blonde guy, Tyler, calls out. He’s the one who seemed to take a liking to me earlier. “You coming with us to grab some dinner, or are you gonna stay here and pout?”

“I’m not pouting,” I reply, but my voice comes out a little sharper than I meant it to. I catch myself, shrugging it off. “Yeah, I’m coming. Lead the way.”

They laugh, and Tyler starts walking toward the exit. “It’s good to have you, man. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

I follow them out, but I can’t stop the weight of my conversation with Mom from settling back in.

Tomorrow’s the real test. Everything’s about to get a lot harder, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it. But right now, I can’t afford to dwell on that. I’ve got a dinner to get through and another day ahead.