Slashing Hearts

The second period lacked only five minutes before coming to an end. The Vixens were down 2-1, and Lexi read it in the way Toronto moved the puck: lazy, confident, a team that knew it had already won. She accelerated into the forecheck anyway, stick up, ready. The defenseman saw her coming and dumped it deep. She had nothing to chase but open ice and the sound of her own skates cutting through it.

Back at the blue line, Maria Larsson, the Vixens' captain, had the puck. She had been playing sloppy all night, caught flat-footed twice already. The center beat her to it again. Toronto pushed forward with that easy momentum of teams with nothing to lose. Lexi backchecked hard, reading the passing lane, trying to force a mistake that wouldn’t come. The right wing cycled it. The center touched it. The puck moved faster than she could think.

She thrust her stick into the shooting lane anyway.

The puck deflected. Loose. She was on it, shoulder-checking the defenseman who was already backing up. She had space. Not much, but enough. She accelerated up the right wing alone. Maria's screen finally worked, and the Toronto defense was rotated the wrong way. This was the moment that mattered.

Twenty feet out. She didn’t hesitate. She cut to the inside, faked the pass to her right. The goalie bit hard, committing her weight. Her glove hand opened. She shot. The puck caught the far corner of the net like it knew exactly where to go.

Goal.

Red light. The siren screamed through the arena. The sparse crowd stood, voices distinct in the half-empty space. Two hundred people spread across five thousand seats. Someone yelled her name. Someone else yelled something in Russian. She skidded to a stop, stick raised, as Jessica Bell crashed into her from the bench, arms around her shoulders, grinning.

"That was sick," Jessica screamed. "That was so fucking sick."

The goal was clean. The goal was hers. For one moment, the scoreboard mattered less than the fact that she had just scored in her first professional game. Twenty-three years old, first overall draft pick, Chicago Vixens, opening night.

Then the game restarted.

Toronto didn’t hesitate. They pushed back immediately, moving the puck with purpose. Lexi sat on the bench, breathing hard, trying to slow her heart rate as the third line took over. She watched the puck move around the perimeter. The center circled. The right wing cut inside. Aino read it wrong. Again. Toronto scored. Just like that, it was 3-2.

The second period ended with the Vixens pushing, momentum shifting. The sparse crowd grew louder. Jessica patted her shoulder as they left the ice. "We got this," she said. Lexi wanted to believe her.

In the third period, Toronto came out hungry. They weren’t going to allow this one to slip away. Lexi played hard, shift after shift, but there was a weight to the game. The Vixens couldn’t generate consistent offense. Turnovers happened. Defensive breakdowns. By midway through the third, Toronto scored again. 4-2. Then again at the 17:30 mark. 5-2. The arena emptied before the final horn sounded.

The locker room was silent. Not the silence of exhaustion. The silence of failure. Maria Larsson sat three lockers down, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. Tyler Kim, the nineteen-year-old from Korea, unlaced her skates with mechanical precision, not looking at anyone. Nobody celebrated the two goals. Nobody mentioned them.

Coach Sandy Burke walked through without stopping. She just said, "Yeah. Well, that was a bad start, don’t you think?" She didn’t go into any detail. They all knew already. Expansion team. Players who had never been together before, playing against teams that had been together for years.

She left. The door closed behind her. Nobody spoke.

Lexi sat with her skates and jersey already off. She peeled off the wet base layers. They stuck to her skin like a second layer of flesh. The goal kept replaying in her head, but it was smaller now, dimmer, pushed aside by images of turnovers and breakdowns. Just one moment against everything else.

She finished stripping off her clothes and headed to the shower.

Under the hot water, she stood with her forehead against the tile. The spray was scalding. She thought about her parents in Brighton Beach, watching with neighbors crowded into their small apartment. She thought about the pride on her father's face when her name was announced as the first draft pick. She thought about the bakery, the way her mother's hands smelled like yeast and salt. She wanted something better for them. This wasn't the way to start.

When she came back to her locker, her phone was lit up on the bench. Her mother.

Lexi sat naked, hair dripping, towel wrapped around her waist, and answered in Russian.

"Mama?"

"Lyuba!" Irina's voice was high and fractured with excitement. "The goal! Your father was watching. The neighbors too. Mrs. Popov from downstairs screamed so loud when you scored that she embarrassed herself!"

Lexi smiled despite everything. She could see it clearly. Her father in the small apartment, neighbors crowded in, her mother narrating plays to people who didn’t care about hockey but cared about Lexi.

"It was good," Lexi said in Russian. "We lost, though. Five to two. I scored one goal. They scored five."

There was a pause. Her mother's voice dropped slightly, still happy but aware now.

"The team is not good?"

"The team is new. It was our first game."

"But you were good. You scored. That's what matters."

Lexi didn’t argue. Her mother had been waiting for this her whole life. Professional women's hockey. It was real now. She was here. She scored in her first game.

"I have to go, Mama. I'll call you tomorrow. Tell Papa I love him."

"Yes, yes. He's standing right here. He says congratulations. He says you’ll be even better next game."

Lexi hung up. She sat in the quiet locker room, towel wrapped around her waist. The shower ran somewhere behind her. The goal already felt distant. Already like it had happened to someone else.

She dressed slowly. Black jeans, a Vixens hoodie, her hair still damp against her neck. She gathered her things and took the tunnel that led to the VIP exit, the one away from the main concourse where media waited for quotes.

The media was already gone. Not much to report.

The parking lot was dark except for overhead lights casting everything in a white fluorescent wash. Her car was a three-year-old Subaru, nothing flashy. She walked toward it, keys already in her hand, still thinking about the goal. The way the goalie’s mask turned a fraction too slow.

A sound stopped her dead.

An engine. Idling.

A black SUV sat parked thirty feet away, positioned at an angle that faced her car. The window on the driver's side was rolled down. She could see the profile of someone inside, head turned toward her. Just watching.

Lexi stopped walking. Her hand gripped the keys tighter. The metal bit into her palm.

The SUV didn’t move. The engine produced a low mechanical murmur in the otherwise quiet lot. The figure inside was still, silhouette only. Not threatening.  Just present. Just watching.

She had played hockey her entire life. She knew about pressure. She knew how to read a situation on the ice. Where the danger was. Which direction to move when being tracked.

This was different.

She walked faster toward her car. Not running. Running would signal panic. But her pace quickened. Her breath was shallow. Her hand shook as she got her car door open. She didn’t look back, but she felt it. The eyes following her. The engine still idling.

She got in. Locked the doors. Started the engine. The Subaru turned over slowly, but caught. She pulled out carefully, deliberately, trying not to seem rushed. In her rearview mirror, the SUV didn’t follow. It just sat in the dark parking lot. Watching the empty space where she had been.

Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her breathing was fast. The goal replayed again, but it was smaller now. Pushed aside by the rolled-down window. Someone patient. Someone waiting. Eyes following her.