Chapter 1: First Ice
The rink lights flickered once before humming into steadiness, casting a flat white glow across the stretch of ice. The boards surrounding the rink had been recently scrubbed, but faint scuffs still traced stories of seasons past. Overhead, the Canadian and provincial flags hung unmoving in the stale arena air, and on the far wall, the Dalton Grove Wolves’ banner waited—empty of accolades, its navy and silver barely distinguishable beneath the frost.
Coach Dars paced the bench with a clipboard in hand. He was an old defenseman, once a minor-league fixture before his knee betrayed him. His beard was the color of river ice and his breath steamed visibly as he muttered through the list of names he had scrawled in block letters: Tessa. Jace. Tyre. Kael. Ellory. Beau. Others. One spot left unfilled.
“Alright,” he barked. His voice echoed across the chilled air. “First drills. One whistle, you skate. Two, you switch. Stay sharp.”
Skates cut the ice. Sticks tapped impatiently. The Wolves’ tryouts had begun.
Tessa adjusted her gloves and pushed off from the blue line. Her breath was controlled, her limbs looser than they’d felt in weeks. This was her third season trying out, and the nerves were no longer strangers, just old companions she’d learned to live with. Her dark braid slipped from beneath her helmet, trailing like a flag as she cut hard around the cone set at center.
Across the rink, Jace was already gunning for speed, his stride powerful, controlled. He had added muscle since last season, and it showed in every corner he cut, every shot he took on net. He didn’t speak much, but he didn’t need to. His game was loud enough.
Near the boards, Tyre crouched beside his duffel bag, taping the blade of his stick with reverence. The tape was white, and on each new wrap he whispered a phrase—not to himself, but into the space between:
“The way of the sluggard is blocked with thorns…”
He twisted the tape.
“But the path of the upright is a highway.”
He smoothed the last fold and crossed himself, the motion quick, practiced.
Ellory stood on the upper bleacher row, not on the ice. She’d arrived early, before the staff even turned the heat lamps on. She had a thermos between her hands and a notebook in her lap, though she hadn’t written anything in it yet. Her eyes followed Tessa with the steady intent of someone who knew how fast things could change. One mistake, one fall—done.
Ellory wasn’t trying out this year.
Down below, Coach Dars stopped pacing. “Group A, line rush. Group B, shots from the circle. Let’s go.”
The players scrambled. Tyre jogged into line beside Tessa. She gave him a nod; he offered none in return. His mind was elsewhere, maybe still in Proverbs, or maybe with his younger brother—rumor had it the kid had been in trouble again.
Then, the sound of the arena door clanging shut cut through the drills. Coach Dars looked up, as did everyone else.
Callen walked in, stick slung over his shoulder, helmet in his hand, hair wet from the rain outside. His laces weren’t tied. His eyes swept across the group quickly, then landed on Coach Dars.
“Sorry,” he said. “I got held up.”
“Fifteen minutes late to first ice,” Dars muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t have to. The kids would sort that out on their own.
Tessa frowned. Callen hadn’t been on anyone’s radar. A few of the others exchanged glances. Jace didn’t react.
Coach Dars jerked a thumb toward the locker hallway. “Get dressed. You’ve got ten to warm up.”
Callen disappeared through the swinging door. His skates echoed on the concrete, a rhythm half a beat too slow. Ellory’s eyes followed him, brow furrowed.
Tyre skated over to the boards, pulled off one glove, and marked something faint on the shaft of his stick with a pen.
“What’s that?” Jace asked, skating by.
Tyre shrugged. “Just words.”
By the time Callen stepped on the ice, the rest had sweat beading beneath their gear. His stride was raw—he hadn’t played in a while. The puck found him anyway. Tessa watched from the bench. When Callen collected a rebound off the boards and flicked it clean to Jace’s tape, she straightened.
“Natural,” Coach Dars muttered. Then, louder, “Callen, Jace, Tessa—three-on-two. Tyre and Kael back.”
The whistle blew.
Tessa drove the wing, low and fast. Callen trailed through the center, hands low, not calling for the puck. Jace waited just long enough for the defenders to commit before sliding a pass across the slot.
Tessa was there. She faked, dropped the puck back—Callen didn’t hesitate.
Goal.
Coach Dars didn’t cheer. He made a mark on his clipboard.
At the next break, Tessa pulled her helmet up and skated beside Callen. “Late start,” she said.
“Didn’t think anyone would notice,” Callen replied. There was something unreadable in his tone. Not arrogance—more like weariness dressed as indifference.
“You from around here?” she asked.
“Was. Just moved back.”
Tyre passed them on the way to the bench, eyes flicking briefly toward Callen’s stick. “We don’t miss start time in Dalton,” he said.
“I won’t next time,” Callen said. Tyre said nothing else.
At the water station, Ellory stood now, arms crossed. Coach Dars walked over to her. “Still not skating?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just watching.”
He nodded. “You see the new one?”
“Callen? Yeah.”
“What do you think?”
Ellory’s eyes drifted back to the ice, where Callen was collecting a puck near the corner, dodging Kael’s reach. “He plays like he’s trying to make up for something.”
Coach Dars scratched his beard. “Aren’t we all.”
When drills ended, the players drifted toward the locker hallway, breath fogging in the rink air. Tessa stayed behind a moment longer. She watched Tyre set his stick down carefully, then kneel beside his bag.
“Another verse?” she asked.
He looked up. “Different one.” He recited it aloud, without looking at anything in particular.
“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”
“You always quote scripture after tryouts?” Tessa asked, half smiling.
Tyre shrugged. “Just trying to remember what matters.” He nodded toward the boards. “Callen. Watch that one.”
“Why?”
But Tyre had already stood and walked away.
In the locker room, the tension thickened.
Callen had taken a spot on the far bench. Beau was already there—tall, broad, with eyes like lake stone and a tendency to speak too loud. Their shoulders brushed. Neither moved.
“You late and now you’re here?” Beau said, louder than necessary.
“I’m not here for your approval,” Callen said.
“You think that goal makes you one of us?”
Kael stood from the bench opposite. “Let it go,” he said, sharp. “Tryouts aren’t the place.”
Beau looked him over. “Easy for you to say. You already got your spot.”
Kael didn’t answer.
From the bench across, Tessa silently opened the leather-bound journal she kept tucked in her bag. The spine cracked softly; the pages were clean. She pulled a pen from behind her ear.
At the top of the page, she wrote:
Prayer One: For Unity in the Fire
Let no pride survive the storm. Let no tongue burn what trust is left. Mend what melts. Steady what shakes. And if we must fight—let it not be each other.
She closed the journal gently, slid it back into her bag.
Ellory lingered outside the locker hallway, the cold air making her nose sting. She watched the shadows stretch beneath the door. Her hand tightened around her thermos, and when she finally turned to leave, her reflection lingered for a moment in the rink’s Plexiglas—hollow-eyed, silent, determined.
Out in the empty rink, the ice sat marked with drills and chaos, shallow ruts and scattered snow. Above, the Wolves banner waited.
Coach Dars remained a while longer, scribbling notes in the dimming light.
“Tomorrow,” he said to no one in particular. “Let’s see what breaks.”
