"So am I the only one who thinks this is weird?"

"No, it's definitely fucking weird."

"Yeah, totally weird."

Taylor grabbed her gear bag from the luggage compartment of the bus then stepped back to join Sammie, Shannon, and Dani. All four of them stood on the cracked asphalt beside the bus, their gazes resting on the group of suits standing near the front.

The majority owner of the Blades, James Murphy. Two of the minor owners, or stakeholders, or whatever they were called, Mike Henderson and Owen Smith.

And Chuckie.

The four men had shown up with the rest of the team before the crack of dawn this morning, just before they were getting ready to head out for their road game in New York. It had come as a complete surprise to everyone—including Taylor. Chuckie hadn't said anything to her about going with them today. Judging from his appearance—tired, just a little worn around the edges—she wondered if maybe he had been called at the last minute. She had no way of knowing, and she hadn't been about to go up and ask him, not when he was sitting at the front of the bus with Mr. Murphy and the other two men.

"So why do you think they're here?"

"No idea." Shannon pushed the sunglasses to the top of her head, anchoring them in her thick blonde hair, and looked over at Taylor. "Your hottie didn't say anything to you?"

"He's not my hottie. And no, he didn't."

"Hunh. Wonder why not. You should go ask him."

"I'm not going to go ask him." Taylor looked over at the men once more, her gaze locking with Chuckie's. He offered her a quick smile, one that looked tired and strained, then turned away when Mr. Murphy said something to him.

"You're not curious?"

"Of course, I'm curious. That doesn't mean I'm just going to stroll right up and ask him. They're busy. See?"

"They don't look busy to me. They look like they're just standing around, shooting the shit."

"You mean like we're doing?" Sammie readjusted the grip on her bag then started walking backward toward the arena. "Come on, let's get inside. I need to pee."

"Why didn't you use the bathroom on the bus?"

"Ewww. Gross. No way. Besides, I didn't need to go then."

They followed Sammie, falling in with the rest of the team as they made their way across the parking lot. Taylor noticed that everyone—including the coaches—kept throwing speculative glances at the four men.

Shannon caught up to Sammie, mimicking each step the shorter woman took: a hop, a skip, a little bounce. "The bathroom wasn't gross. I mean, it's practically new. You should have tried it out. You know, instead of dancing around like that."

"I'm not dancing." Sammie bounced from one foot to the other. "I just need to really pee."

"You want some water?"

"No!"

"You sure?" Shannon pulled a nearly-full bottle from her bag and shook it in front of Sammie. "Because there's nothing like a nice cold bottle of really wet water trickling down your throat and hitting your full bladder when you need to pee."

"Oh God, stop." Sammie turned and started to run, rushing to the double doors and nearly knocking Coach Reynolds off her feet.

Taylor bit back a laugh and elbowed Shannon in the side. "Why do you do that to her?"

"Seriously? Because she's fun to tease. Duh." Shannon looked over her shoulder, a speculative frown creasing her face. "So why do you think they're really here?"

"I don't know. Maybe Mr. Murphy really wants to take an interest now. I mean, we got the ice fixed. And we don't have to drive around in that death-trap anymore, worrying about suffocating to death on exhaust fumes."

"Yeah. That's something, I guess. Still don't understand why they decided to come with us, though."

Dani pushed between them. "Maybe he wants to act like a real owner. You know, like the pros. I heard lots of the owners travel with their teams."

"I guess."

Taylor grabbed the door and held it open for the other two. "Stop worrying about it. Them being here doesn't mean anything. I mean, we still need to just focus on the game."

"But that's the problem. I couldn't do my thing on the bus with them there. They're fucking up my mojo."

"Your mojo is fine." Dani pushed Shannon through the door with a laugh. "And nobody was stopping you from doing anything so stop being so freaking weird."

"Hey. I'm not weird. I just have a routine. And I get antsy when anyone messes with it."

"Nobody was messing with anything."

They filed into the locker room with everyone else, the noise level automatically increasing as their voices bounced off the cracked and faded concrete walls and floors. The odor of musty water and stale, sweaty gear made Taylor wrinkle her nose, but only for a minute. This was a smell she was accustomed to, one she had been smelling for more than half her life. It was usually just the first whiff that caught her off-guard.

Usually. This odor was a bit stronger than normal, though.

"Oh God." Dani pinched her nose, her face scrunched up in distaste. "When's the last time they aired this room out?"

"Probably never." Taylor tossed her bag on the bench and started pulling gear out, arranging everything into a neat pile. Sammie appeared next to her and dropped to the bench, a frown marring her face.

"I should have used the bathroom on the bus."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. Worse, even. I'm seriously thinking of skipping a shower after the game."

"It's really that bad?"

"Oh yeah. Makes me appreciate what we have back home, you know?"

Taylor nodded in silent agreement. Just over a month ago, she would have disagreed. She would have argued and said that what they had was next-to-nothing, that it didn't come close to what the pro teams—or even the semi-pro teams—had. But that was a month ago and things had changed. Her own attitude had changed. She wasn't afraid to hope anymore, wasn't afraid to think that maybe this whole new league might actually lead to something.

That it might actually become something.

They still had a long way to go and there were still a million and one obstacles to overcome, but it was a start. And it was definitely better than nothing. So maybe, just maybe, things would work.

Maybe.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind and focused on getting dressed, slipping into her pre-game zone so she'd be ready to hit the ice when the game started. The rest of the team was doing the same, following whatever small rituals they had established over time.

Dani, sitting in a corner, her legs crossed as she listened to music while she meditated.

Sammie, staring at the picture of Clare tucked inside her helmet, her lips moving soundlessly.

Jordyn, wrapping her stick with bright tape in an intricate pattern that meant something only to her.

Even Rachel and Amanda, coming out of the bathroom with their arms around each other's shoulders, their heads close together in quiet conversation. Taylor frowned. Maybe that wasn't so much a ritual as them just being themselves. She looked closer, frowning, wondering why it looked like Rachel was propping Amanda up.

Taylor didn't have time to dwell on it, not when it was time to line up and head out to the ice. Probably just her imagination, anyway.

Her mind turned elsewhere, focusing on stretching her muscles as they warmed up. Then the ice was cleaned and it was time to line up for the anthem and start the game. She glanced around at the nearly nonexistent crowd, told herself not to worry about it, then took her spot at center ice, falling into position beside Dani for the puck drop. Knees bent, back limber, stick held at the ready in three, two, one—

Dani won the face off and shot the puck behind her, toward Jordyn. She took off down the ice, her stride long and easy, then passed the puck to Taylor. Back and forth, gaining speed, only to lose the puck and have to chase it down the ice again.

The first period flew by, only minutes left with no score on the board. Taylor was back on the ice again, along with Dani and Rachel.

Sweat coated Taylor's face, her legs burning as she raced toward their own net. One of the players from New York took a wild shot. Shannon deflected the puck with her stick, sending it flying to the side.

Taylor raced for it, crashing into the boards and nearly falling. She righted herself and spun around, digging into the corner for the puck, her jaw clenched in determination. She got a piece of it, broke free from the tangle of players, and looked behind her a split-second before shooting it toward Amanda.

The puck slapped against the blade of Amanda's stick and bounced up, hitting her in the chest. Amanda brushed it away, knocking it back to the ice, then cradled it with her stick and headed away from their net. Taylor and Rachel followed, getting ahead of her, fighting to get open so Amanda could pass it to one of them.

Amanda looked up, her eyes narrowed behind the cage of her helmet, then pulled back on her stick. But instead of passing the puck, she kept falling backward, an odd vacant expression on her face. Taylor watched as she hit the ice and lay there, not moving.

Play continued, the other team racing in for the loose puck. Taylor dropped her stick and called to the ref, signaling for a stop in play as she hurried over to Amanda's prone body. Rachel and Dani slid to their knees behind Taylor, the echo of their breathing harsh in the sudden silence surrounding them.

"Amanda. Amanda, can you hear me?" Taylor leaned closer, her hands shaking as she ripped off her gloves and reached for Amanda. She didn't touch her, she was afraid to, had no idea what was wrong with her. She was just lying there, her eyes partially rolled back behind half-opened lids. Her face was pale, her lips tinged an odd gray, her chest barely moving.

Shouts echoed around them as more people joined them on the ice. Coach Reynolds. Two of the refs. The coach from the New York team. Two paramedics, dressed in blue jumpsuits, shuffled out to the ice, heavy equipment bags in their hands.

Someone reached for Taylor, pulling her out of the way, helping her to her feet as the paramedics knelt beside Amanda.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Coach Reynolds eased them away, her face a grim mask. "Blades, all of you. Back to the bench. Take a knee."

"What's wrong with Amanda? What happened?"

"You!" Rachel grabbed Taylor's arm, her grip hard and bruising. "This is your fault."

"What? I didn't—"

"Ladies, I said back to the bench. Now."

"It's your fault, LeBlanc." Rachel kept talking, her face twisted in anger and agony. "You hit her with the puck. This is your fault."

"No. It wasn't—" Taylor stopped, fear gripping her, chilling her. She looked back at Amanda, her body still and unresponsive as the paramedics worked on her.

Was this her fault? Had Amanda been hurt because of her? No, it couldn't be. Taylor hadn't hit her with the puck. The shot wasn't that hard. It had just bounced up. A fluke. Something that happened all the time.

But if it wasn't her fault, then what had happened? Why was Amanda just lying there, not moving? It had been her fault. There was no other reason. None.

Taylor pulled her arm from Rachel's grip and dropped to her knees, her legs no longer able to support her weight as one of the paramedics started chest compressions on Amanda's limp body.