Chapter 9 The ice cracks

The first time, it's easy to explain away.

A loose edge on Rey's skate. Nothing major. A wobble during warmups that makes her stumble on a transition, the blade catching awkwardly in the ice. She laughs it off, shrugs at the bench, sharpens them again herself during the first break.

But Ivy watches her from across the locker room, something knotting in her stomach. Rey sharpens her skates religiously. She checks her edges before every skate. It's habit. Ritual. As precise as anything Ivy's ever seen.

"Bad sharpening?" Ivy asks casually.

Rey glances up, wiping sweat from her brow. "I guess. Maybe the machine's off."

But Ivy sees it in her eyes: the flicker of doubt. It's not the machine.

Still, they say nothing.

They lace up again and head back onto the ice.

The second time, there's no pretending.

It happens during a mid-week scrimmage-just drills, nothing high-stakes. But Ivy's stick feels wrong in her hands from the first pass. Too light. Off-balance. She fumbles a one-timer, then another.

Frustration boils beneath her skin. She snaps at Dani, snaps at herself. Rey skates over, brow furrowed.

"Let me see it," she says, holding out a hand.

Ivy hesitates, then passes it over.

Rey flips the stick in her grip, testing the weight. Her eyes narrow.

"This isn't your stick," she says.

"What?" Ivy grabs it back. "Yes it is."

"No." Rey points. "The tape's wrong. You do that weird double-wrap at the top, and it's not here. And the flex feels stiffer than yours. Someone swapped it."

Ivy freezes. The implications hit fast and hard.

Someone touched her gear.

Someone knew how she tapes her sticks.

And someone wanted her to play like shit today.

After practice, Ivy doesn't speak. She strips her gear in silence, every nerve on edge. Rey doesn't push, but she doesn't leave, either.

Liza's the one who says it, like she's reading the room a little too well.

"Something's off lately," she says, pulling her hoodie over her head. "Anyone else feel that?"

Jules nods, rubbing at her shoulder. "Weird energy. Like someone's watching."

"Ivy's the paranoid one," Dani offers, grinning, but her joke lands flat.

Rey doesn't look at anyone but Ivy.

And Ivy?

She's already planning to check the security feed in the gear room. She's not paranoid. She's not imagining it.

Someone's playing a different game.

Later that night, they go back to the rink.

It's not a plan, not a texted invite-just something that happens now. Habit. Muscle memory. Gravity.

The arena is empty except for them, the air sharp with cold and unsaid things.

Rey skates a slow circle, thoughtful. "You think it's someone on the team?"

Ivy doesn't answer at first. Just watches the puck as it spins lazily across the ice.

"I don't want it to be," she says finally. "But who else would have access to our gear?"

Rey exhales hard. "You check the security cams?"

Ivy nods. "They loop after 48 hours. Footage from earlier this week is already gone."

"Convenient," Rey mutters. "You think it's Hale? Or Wynn?"

"Could be. But that stick swap wasn't random. Whoever did it knows how I play. That's not some suit in a blazer."

Rey pushes a hand through her hair, frustrated. "It's not just the stick. My skates, too. It's escalating."

They fall silent again. The only sound is their blades carving patterns into the ice.

Eventually, Ivy says, "We need to tell Coach."

Rey meets her eyes. "And say what? That someone's sabotaging us but we don't know who?"

Ivy clenches her jaw. "We need proof."

"Then we get it," Rey says. "Together."

There's no hesitation. No sarcasm. Just certainty.

And Ivy realizes, in that moment, that she trusts Rey.

God help her.

They start keeping tabs. Quietly.

Ivy takes photos of how her sticks are taped, checks the rack before and after every practice. Rey puts subtle scratches in the leather of her gloves-tiny marks only she would know to look for.

Nothing happens for three days.

Then, the morning of their game against Portland, it does.

Rey's gloves are missing.

Not in her locker. Not in her stall. Gone.

She tears through the gear room, growing increasingly frantic.

Ivy finds her there, hair damp from warmups, jersey half-on.

"What happened?" she asks.

"My gloves," Rey says, breath coming fast. "They're gone."

"Check the backups?"

"I did. They're gone too."

Ivy swears under her breath. She grabs a pair from the wall, tosses them at her. "These are Jules's spares. Use them."

Rey yanks them on, face pale with rage.

They hit the ice late. Coach glares but doesn't say anything.

The Ravens lose 2-1.

Rey misses an open shot in the second period. Not by much. But enough.

In the locker room afterward, tension hangs thick in the air.

Coach's voice is flat. "That was sloppy. We don't play like that. We don't lose like that."

Ivy stares at the floor. Rey doesn't say a word.

They wait until the room clears out.

Then Ivy shuts the door.

"Okay," she says. "No more pretending."

Rey sits heavily on the bench, holding the borrowed gloves in her lap. "Someone's targeting us."

"And they're getting bolder."

"Who do you think it is?" Rey asks.

Ivy's mind spins.

Who benefits from destabilizing them?

From making Rey miss. From making Ivy fumble.

Who on this team has something to gain?

A chill creeps over her.

"I don't know," she says. "But I'm going to find out."

That night, they stake out the gear room.

It's stupid. It's reckless. But it's the only thing they have.

They hide in the shadows above the rink, tucked behind the sound booth, wrapped in sweatshirts and tension.

Ivy has a camera. Rey has snacks. She's nervous-eating licorice ropes like her life depends on it.

"This is so dumb," Rey mutters.

"It's brilliant," Ivy says. "If we catch them, we catch them. If not... we'll know it's someone who knows we're watching."

Midnight passes. Nothing.

One. Still nothing.

Rey shifts beside her, head resting against the wall. "You ever think we're just cursed?"

Ivy snorts softly. "Not cursed. Just unlucky."

Rey looks at her, and even in the low light, Ivy feels it-like heat beneath the skin.

"I don't think meeting you was bad luck," Rey says quietly.

It lands too close to the bone.

Ivy swallows hard. "That sounds dangerously like a compliment."

"Yeah," Rey says. "Guess I'm slipping."

They fall quiet again. Comfortable. Strange.

And then they hear it.

Footsteps. Soft. Careful.

Rey stiffens. Ivy lifts the camera.

Down below, someone moves into the gear room, hood pulled up, back to them.

They open the storage locker, quickly.

Too quickly.

Like they've done it before.

Ivy's finger hits the shutter.

Click.

The figure freezes.

Looks up.

And runs.

"Shit!" Ivy hisses, scrambling to her feet. Rey's already bolting for the stairs.

They give chase, skates forgotten, boots loud on concrete. The figure darts through the corridor, out the back exit.

Gone.

By the time they hit the alley, there's nothing but darkness and silence.

"Damn it!" Rey punches the wall.

Ivy exhales, heart still pounding.

"We got the photo," she says, lifting the camera.

Rey looks at it, then at her. "Do we show Coach?"

"Not yet," Ivy says. "We need to ID them first. We go to Coach now, it's rumors. We go to Coach with a name? That's evidence."

Rey nods slowly. "You're scary when you get like this."

Ivy smirks. "And you like it."

Rey doesn't answer.

She doesn't need to.

They develop the photo the next day.

It's blurry. Grainy.

But it's enough to make Ivy's blood run cold.

Because under the hood, half-turned, lit by the low glow of the storage room lights-

It's someone they know.

Someone they trusted.