“Some of you guys probably know Hudson Avery,” Will says. The statement elicits a few grunts. One discernible “yeah.” Two sneezes. A yawn. Wow. Just as I suspected, I’ve made quite an impression at the Watonka Central School District. Perhaps I should refresh their memories with a few stories from the good ole days, like the one where right wing Parker Gilgallon wets his pants during sixth-grade crab soccer, or where defense Eddie Dune got the nickname “Gettysburg” for flashing the crowd during center Micah Baumler’s recital of the Gettysburg Address, right after the four score and seven years part.

“She can skate,” Will continues. “Really skate. And unless you scare her off by acting like your mouth-breather selves, she might be able to help us. Off the record, of course.”

Shuffles. Groans. Another sneeze. Perhaps my hot-pink zip-up fleece wasn’t such an award-winning idea; much more Barbie on Ice than the Icelandic barbarian skatetrix Dani and I envisioned earlier this week when we discussed the hockey strategy. Still, I expected and planned for this exact scenario, and no one needs to know that behind my confident fuchsia-and-bubble-gum exterior, just above my hockey-boys-you-will-take-this-ass-seriously stretchy jeans, my stomach is trying to run up into my esophagus.

Hudson Avery, you are a professionally trained ice-skater. You can do spirals and axels and lutzes around these guys all day long. You are a beautiful woman with the strength of an ox, …

Yes! I step out of the box, blades firm on the ice.

… the ferocity of a lioness, …

Absolutely! I hold my head high.

… the grace of a gazelle….

No doubt! Right foot next, firm on the—firm! No! I said firm! With the grace of a—

Gazelle.

I’m flat on my stomach, splayed out in an X, cartoon-falling-off-cliff style. As a competitive figure skater, I spent a good majority of my training perfecting the best way to fall on my ass, and I’m not even doing that right anymore. What is it with me and hockey boys?

Across the ice, thirty-eight black skates are level with my head. White laces looped through silver eyelets. Toes scuffed. Thick blades. Four of them move toward me. Slash-slash, slash-slash, slash-slash.

Will and Josh grab my arms and help me to my feet.

“You okay?” Josh’s face tightens the way it did after our collision at Fillmore.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“You totally bit it,” Will says through that megawatt smile. “Blackthorn didn’t even have to train-wreck you this time.”

“You gonna teach us how to walk, Princess Pink?” GILGALLON, twenty-nine. Pretty ballsy for a pants-wetter, if you ask me. “I wouldn’t want you to break a nail.”

If I wasn’t so utterly pink right now, I might just skate over there and knee him in the—

“Back off, Gilgallon,” Josh warns. He and Will may be my only allies on the ice. Which is unfortunate, considering there are seventeen other guys staring me down, all looking for a reason to unilaterally dismiss me.

“So, um, why are you here, exactly?” Grab, spit, grab goes Brad Nelson.

“Seriously, mamí.” Left wing TORRES, lucky number thirteen, shakes his head. “Hockey rink ain’t the place for candy-ass little girls. Maybe you should go home and play with your dollies.”

“Dude, shut it.” Will smacks Frankie’s arm while the other guys laugh. “Seriously, you all right to keep going, Hud?”

I press my hand against my fleece pocket, Lola’s letter crinkling inside. You gotta want it, kiddo. Really want it. I take a deep breath and feel the rink beneath my blades, the familiar solidity coming up through my legs. All winter I’ve come to the ice sporadically, a secret affair. Without reason. Without direction. Looping like a tiny snowflake swirling on the wind, no idea how far I’d drift or where I’d end up, hoping only that I wouldn’t melt before I got there.

But here, now, my reason skates to the surface.

Will and I made a deal. I’m laced up. I’m on the ice. And for the first time since I ditched the competition track three years ago, I have a purpose.

And like old Lola used to say, “I didn’t keep myself alive another lousy day just to watch you half-ass your way across the rink, bambina. Capisce?”

“Wolf pack, right?” I ask, newly emboldened by the stone-cold Lola-cool in my voice. “That’s what they call you?”

“How-ooooo!” JORDAN, ninety-nine, goalie. Amir Jordan is actually howling. Head thrown back, olive-brown skin and shaggy black hair gleaming under the fluorescents like a real wolf in the moonlight. The whole thing is pretty frightening, and I don’t mean in the sexy “Team Jacob” kind of way.

I suck in a breath of cold air and channel some more Lola, slapping my gloves against my hip. “All right, wolf pack. When was the last time you won a game?”

Slap.

“Tied a game?”

Slap.

“Lost by less than a point?”

“Speaking of points, Princess Pink … you got one?” Brad again. You know, for someone so hot, he shouldn’t be so wound up.

“Chill out, Nelson,” Josh says.

“But homegirl doesn’t know jack about hockey! You just want to—”

“Ever hear of James Creighton?” I glide toward them, skating along the blue line.

“Who?” Micah Baumler asks.

“Creighton. Father of ice hockey?”

Skates shuffle. Helmets bow.

“He’s in the hockey hall of fame,” I continue. “And by the way, wolf pups, the father of your favorite sport was also a figure skating judge. So let’s drop all this ‘homegirl doesn’t know jack’ b.s. and focus on the biggest challenge this school has ever seen: breaking your flawlessly pathetic ten-year losing streak.”

“Ten years?” Rowan laughs. “It hasn’t been that long, Hudson.”

“Have you read the files?”

He looks up at me, lowering his voice as if we’re sharing some big secret. Which, apparently, we are. “What files?”

“From the—”

“If you’re done with the history lesson, can we go now?” Chuck Felzner whines, still messing with his phone.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Brad says. “You guys wanna hit up Papallo’s? Ten-cent wings tonight.”

Frankie fist bumps him. “Man, you know I want in on that.”

Josh holds up his hands. “Come on, guys. Practice isn’t over.”

Oblivious to his protests, the team shuffles collectively toward the locker room.

“You coming out with us, Princess?” Brad winks at me again before he leaves, but I shake my head and he follows the rest of the pack off the ice.

Will and Josh, the only two wolves on the rink, exchange a frustrated glance.

“I’ll try again,” Josh says. He skates to the edge and slips the guards over his blades, hobbling into the locker room to find his teammates.

“Sorry about that,” Will says. “Not bad for your first try, though.” He squeezes my shoulder. I remember Dani’s “smoldering” comment in French class the other day and gently shrug him off.

“If that’s what you call ‘not bad,’ no wonder your team sucks.”

Will laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ouch.”

“Sorry.” I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings out here, but … not bad? Seriously? On the scale of things going bad, one being my infamous Black Melons cupcake fail—watermelon cupcakes with black licorice icing that even Bug refused—and ten being, let’s say, the Cold War, I’d call today’s meet and greet about a seven thousand. Hot-pink zip-up? Training Watonka’s hockey thugs? My so-called candy-ass moves against ten-cent wings at Papallo’s?

“It’s okay. It’s just the first night.”

“Will, this isn’t going to work. The guys don’t—”

“The guys don’t realize how much they need you. But they will.”

“I don’t belong out here with—”

“Yes, you do. It’s hard for them—no one wants to admit we need outside help.”