Page 1 of Shots & Echoes

Chapter 1

Iris

The rink lay still, the world outside a blur of summer heat and noise. I glided onto the ice, feeling the familiar chill seep into my skin. The soft hum of the arena lights buzzed above me, but all I heard was the sharp, rhythmic sound of my blades carving through the surface.

I pushed off hard, launching into a series of drills I’d perfected over countless early mornings. Tight turns, quick stops. Each motion felt fluid, like poetry in motion—my body moving in sync with every thought racing through my mind.

I wove between imaginary defenders, my stick low to the ice as I faked left and darted right. My heart pounded with adrenaline; the thrill of movement kept me focused. With every stride, doubt slipped away like mist under the sun.

“Come on, Evans,” I muttered to myself as I picked up speed. “No one else is out here.”

The cold air bit at my cheeks while sweat formed at my brow. Perfection thrived in these quiet moments—before anyone arrived, before distractions crept in. Just me and this vast expanse of white.

With each lap around the rink, I reminded myself why I pushed so hard. Two weeks until that announcement loomed over me like a storm cloud, heavy with possibility and pressure. The women’s national team selection would change everything; it hovered at the edges of my thoughts.

Another lap completed; another drill executed flawlessly. I slowed down, catching my breath as I circled back toward center ice.

I dropped into a low stance and let my stick rest against the cool surface while I inhaled deeply. The smell of fresh ice filled my lungs—the scent that meant opportunity and hope.

A sound broke through—skates echoing off the concrete walls—and brought me back to reality. My heart raced again; teammates would soon fill this empty space with chatter and laughter.

“Just one more,” I whispered to myself before taking off again, focusing on perfecting that last drill before anyone else arrived.

The skates whistled beneath me as I slid forward once more—a final push toward something greater than just a spot on a team; it was about proving that all this effort meant something.

As I finished another lap, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running on autopilot. Sure, Coach had me pegged as the rising star, and the accolades came pouring in with each game. A sophomore heading into junior year, I was the one everyone expected to shine.

Coach’s favorite.

The future of Team USA.

The pressure hung heavy around my shoulders, a weight that never fully settled. It wasn’t just about winning; it was about maintaining an image—doing everything right both on and off the rink.

Another drill completed flawlessly; I stopped to catch my breath, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my glove. My heart raced not from exertion but from something deeper—a faint ache I tried to ignore.

When was the last time hockey felt like mine? Not something polished or practiced under watchful eyes, but raw and free? It had been ages since those moments where joy pulsed through me like electricity instead of obligation.

I glanced up as laughter and chatter broke the silence of the rink. A group of my teammates stepped through the doors, their voices echoing against the walls. But one voice cut through the others, low and rough.

“Did you hear about the new trainer?” a girl said, her tone laced with curiosity.

“Yeah! Callahan’s own son,” another replied, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

“No way,” someone chimed in. “I heard he punched a ref.”

My heart sank at that name—Knox Callahan. I froze, my stick resting against the ice, ears tuned to their conversation.

“I heard he slept with the ref’s wife and then punched the ref,” another teammate added, giggles following her words.

The laughter faded into whispers as they shared more stories about Knox Callahan. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was about to get messy. The guy was notorious—his reputation flared like a wildfire among hockey circles. He’d been part of discussions for years; some loved him, some loathed him. There was no in between.

“Honestly, I can’t believe they brought him in,” one of them said. “Doesn’t Coach know what he’s like?”

“Maybe that’s why,” another suggested with a smirk. “You know how Coach loves a challenge. I mean, it is his son.”

"I heard he had to," a third chimed in. "After the punch during the USA game, the NHL needed to get him in line."

The sound of skates scraping on ice pulled me back to reality as more teammates arrived. They chatted about practice plans and game strategies, but Knox lingered at the edge of my thoughts like an unwelcome guest.

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