Shattered Ice, Broken Trust.

Three years, and the Rebels’ practice rink still smelled the same, stale sweat, rubber, and the sharp bite of fresh ice that used to make my heart race for all the right reasons. Now it just made my rebuilt knee ache and my stomach twist.

I stood in the tunnel entrance, my burgundy business suit feeling like a bad costume, and stared at my name still mounted on the record wall. Most points by a rookie. A record that would stand forever now, since the girl who set it couldn’t play anymore.

Couldn’t. Right. That’s what we were calling it.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal princess, back to grace us with her presence.”

I didn’t need to turn around to know that voice belonged to Logan Pierce. Deep and rough, with just enough edge to make you wonder if he was joking or sizing you up for a hit. Probably both.

I turned slowly, letting him see the smile that had gotten me through press conferences and pitying looks from former teammates. “Careful, Pierce. Your new assistant coach might take offense to that attitude.”

He stood at center ice as though he owned it which, technically, as captain, he kind of did. Three years had definitely added some weight to his frame, filled him out in ways that would’ve been distracting if I wasn’t so busy cataloging the slight favor he was giving his left leg. The hesitation was barely there, maybe half a second longer than it should be, before he shifted his weight.

But I saw it.

“Didn’t expect they’d send us a babysitter,” he said, gliding closer . “Especially not one with your umm... history.”

History. Nice way to say catastrophic injury that ended your career and made you disappear for three years.

“Funny. I didn’t expect the great Logan Pierce would need a babysitter.” I cocked my head, let my eyes drop to his knee. “But that limp suggests otherwise.”

His jaw tightened. Good. I wasn’t here to make friends.

“Watch yourself, Winters.”

“That’s Coach Winters now.” I stepped onto the ice in my stupid business heels because apparently, I needed to prove something to myself. My knee protested immediately, but I’d gotten good at ignoring pain. “And trust me, Pierce, I’m watching plenty.”

The air between us felt cold, like right before a fight breaks out on the ice. I’d missed that feeling more than I wanted to admit .

“Clara! You’re early.”

Dr. Elena Rodriguez appeared from the medical office, her warm smile not quite hiding the concern in her dark eyes. I’d done my homework on the team’s physician ,forty-three published papers on sports medicine, impeccable reputation, and a noted advocate for athlete safety. Which made her an anomaly in an organization that had made a habit of breaking people like me. You go,o girl.

“Elena.” I nodded, watching Logan subtly shift his weight again at her approach. Hmm Interesting. “Just getting reacquainted.”

“And with our captain, I see.” Elena’s gaze flickered between us like she was reading us. “Logan, don’t you have those tests we discussed?”

“Later, Doc.” He pushed off backward, that fluid grace almost just almost hiding whatever was wrong with his knee. “Got to welcome our new coach properly first.”

As other players filtered onto the ice for morning practice, I spotted James emerging from his office. My brother and also the Team doctor. The reason I was here, though he didn’t know that part yet.

He froze when he saw me, and for a second, his carefully constructed mask slipped. Guilt flashed across his features before he smoothed it away with that fake professional neutrality.

“Clara.” He nodded stiffly.

“James.” His name tasted like Avocados and sardines in my mouth. Yuck!

We stared at each other across the ice, siblings separated by three years and a betrayal he thought I’d forgotten about. I hadn’t and i will never , I had just gotten better at waiting.

Practice was messy and chaotic and very informative. I watched Thompson or Tank, they called him pop something small and white between drills. His hands trembled as he fumbled the bottle back into his gear. Watched Logan bark orders at rookies while favoring that knee he pretended was fine. Watched James hovering near the bench, monitoring his players like lab rats in an experiment. As if that wasnt creepy.

Maybe that’s exactly what they were.

After practice, I found myself drawn to James’s office. The door was unlocked, thats sloppy and so unlike him. Inside, files covered his desk in organized. One lay open: “Experimental Treatment Protocol - Phase 3.”

My blood went cold as I scanned the first page. Subject performance metrics. Tissue degradation rates. Acceptable loss percentages.

I flipped through pages with shaking hands until I found a date I’d memorized: March 15th, three years ago. The day my career ended on a single hit that shattered my knee into seventeen tiny pieces.

The day that was supposed to look like an accident.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. I quickly photographed what I could with my phone and slipped out the side door, my rebuilt knee screaming with every step.

Back in the tunnel, I leaned against the cold concrete and tried to steady my breathing. Three years I’d spent in physical therapy, in depositions with lawyers who assured me it was “just an unfortunate accident,” in dark rooms, wondering if I was crazy for thinking my own brother would sacrifice me.

I wasn’t crazy.

And now I was back on the ice where it all went wrong, wearing the wrong uniform, playing a different position in a game I was only beginning to understand.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Welcome back, little sister. Try not to get hurt this time.