Page 7 of Checks & Bonds

He stopped pacing and looked at each of us in turn, making sure his words sank in.

"No more excuses," he said firmly. "You either give it everything you've got or you don't deserve to wear that jersey."

The room fell silent except for the faint sound of skates scraping against ice in the distance.

"Now get out there and show me you’re worth a damn," he finished, turning on his heel and heading towards the rink entrance.

We followed him out, determination etched on our faces. The weight of Ravenwood and everything else faded away as I stepped onto the ice.

Here, nothing else mattered but the game.

The coolness seeped through my skates and into my bones. The familiar glide of the blades against the frozen surface brought an immediate sense of calm. The rink was my sanctuary, the one place where I could forget about everything—Ravenwood, Freya, the weight of expectations.

Coach Morgan blew his whistle, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Let's go, boys! Warm-up laps!"

I took off, pushing hard against the ice. My muscles fell into a rhythm as I skated around the rink. The cold air rushed past my face, and each breath came out in visible puffs. My teammates fell in line behind me, our synchronized movements creating a symphony of scraping ice.

After a few laps, Morgan signaled us to gather at center ice. "We're running drills today," he barked. "I want to see crisp passes and tight formations."

We broke off into groups, and I paired up with Keaton. We started with passing drills, firing pucks back and forth with precision. The clink of stick against puck echoed in the empty rink.

"Keep your head up," Keaton said as he sent another pass my way.

I nodded, catching the puck on my stick and sending it back to him in one fluid motion.

Morgan's voice rang out again. "Switch it up! Two-on-one drills!"

Keaton and I moved into position. I took off down the ice, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as Keaton chased after me. We weaved between cones, passing the puck back and forth with increasing speed.

"Nice move," Keaton muttered as I deked around a cone and sent a quick pass his way.

We reached the goal crease, and I lined up for a shot. Keaton fed me the puck perfectly, and I fired it into the top corner of the net.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Morgan shouted from the sidelines. "We need more offense from you both."

The rest of practice flew by in a blur of drills and scrimmages. My focus never wavered; each shift on the ice felt like a battle to prove myself. Every shot, every pass was an opportunity to forget about everything else—even if just for a moment.

Finally, Morgan blew his whistle again. "Wrap it up! Good hustle today."

I skated off the ice with my teammates, feeling a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. As we headed back to the locker room, Coach clapped me on the shoulder.

"Keep that up in the playoffs," he said gruffly.

I nodded, feeling a small spark of pride ignite within me. For now, at least, I'd left everything else behind on that sheet of ice.

3

Freya

Ivy’s kitchen had the smell of fresh coffee and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She was hunched over the bar, a tower of textbooks around her, scribbling notes with fierce concentration. I sat across from her, fingers tracing the edge of the black card Rebecca had slipped into my hand last night. The letters on it shimmered in a strange, almost hypnotic way.

Ivy glanced up, her eyebrows knitting together.

"You're not studying," she pointed out, her tone a mix of concern and mild annoyance. "We have midterms in a few weeks."

"Ivy," I began, unable to peel my eyes from the card, "have you heard of the Imprinting Ceremony?"

"The — what?" She blinked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, glancing over at me.

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