Slash-slash … slash …

At what time will they collide inside Baylor’s Rink, causing an explosion of silver blades and hot-pink dust where the girl formerly known as Hudson Avery used to be?

As Luke fast approaches my personal space, my brain checks out and my body takes over, shifting weight to my left leg and bending like a ribbon in the wind. He zooms past me and I pick up speed, pumping harder until I reach the other end of the rink, crossing over into a seamless turn and heading back toward him. His blades grind on the ice and I know he’s coming at me faster this time, the rest of the team whooping and shouting from the sidelines. Even Marcus, the ponytailed rink manager, has joined the pack, pumping his fist with the others.

On our second high-speed face-off, I lean into a twist, turning just as he stretches forward and hugs the wind between us. We whip around the rink for another go, and though he’s fast and determined and rock steady on the blades, he misses me again, and after the fourth miss, the boys still laughing and whistling on the rails, I signal to Luke that it’s over.

I skate fast and furious for the edge, skidding in on my blades, spraying the wolf pack with a shower of ice as I come to a graceful halt.

Marcus winks at me and disappears behind the stands.

No one speaks.

That’s right. And you boys haven’t even seen my triple/triple!

Luke slides up next to me, panting as he unfastens his helmet. He doesn’t say anything or meet my eyes—just pats me on the back once, skates to the rail, and punches Will in the shoulder like he means the hell out of it.

“After today, we’ve got one more practice before Friday’s game,” I say to my newly captive audience. “Can I assume we’re done with the theatrics?”

All of them nod, speechless. A warmth radiates from my stomach, the tension floating out of my limbs. It’s like every air molecule in the rink has registered the change, and now that I have their attention—and maybe even their respect—I want to be here. Not just for the ice time, but to help them. To really make a difference, just like Will and Josh always believed I could.

“Excellent,” I say. “Now strap on your helmets. You’ve got drills to do.”

Will glides over to me. “I guess this means you’re in.”

I look out over the boys, all muscle and sweat and swagger, momentarily brought together as they harass Luke about his inability to, in the parlance of our times, “grow a pair.”

I turn back to Will, his eyes fixed on mine, and mirror his radiant smile. “Princess Pink, at your service.”

Once hockey practice ends, it’s time for round two: Capriani Cup training. Certain the Wolves have all filed out into the parking lot, I soar back to the center of the rink alone, and with all the confidence of a girl in a hot-pink zip-up who just kicked about two metric tons of hockey-player ass, launch into a double-axel, double-toe-loop combo jump, landing flawlessly.

Ladies and gentlemen, Princess Pink has officially brung it.

Chapter Ten

Red-Hot Double Crush Cakes

Ginger vanilla cupcakes with chili-infused dark chocolate cream cheese frosting, dusted with cinnamon

“Who’sthat?” Dani stomps into my kitchen on Friday night with her sleepover gear and a bucket of wings, the salty tang of Tobasco singeing my nostrils. “Oh my God, is that your father and Shelvis?”

“You got it. Daddy Dearest subscribed me to his new travel blog.”

She sits on my lap to get a closer look at the screen, scrolling down the opening post from Yellowstone National Park. There’s an obnoxious close-up of my father and his she-Elvis grinning in front of Old Faithful, his arm wrapped around her waist. Old Faithful? Right. Even though Dad went to Watonka High, he obviously missed Mr. Keller’s all-important lecture on irony.

Everyone says that the internet is so awesome because you can connect with people from all over the world, but I think it’s the opposite. The internet doesn’t make it easier to connect with anyone—it just makes it so you don’t really have to. And that’s exactly the kind of arrangement my father wants: Just checking in, no no I can’t stay, thanks anyway, don’t get up, click here for more, seeyalaterbye.

“For a female Elvis impersonator,” Dani says, “I expected someone hairier.”

“Tell me about it.” I sigh. Long, dark hair. Good skin. Smile as bright as the new-fallen snow around them. She is pretty.

“Sorry, Hud.” Dani squints at the screen, tapping the woman with her finger. “Send me the image file. I’ll broaden her shoulders and add some facial hair, maybe knock out a tooth or something. Sound good?”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“Hey, this’ll cheer you up even more. Extra-hot wings for our pregame pig-out, and check it out.” She hops up to grab her bag and dumps a pile of homemade DVDs on the kitchen table.

I shuffle through the stack. Wolves v. Bulldogs, Season XX. Wolves v. Quakers, Season XXI. Wolves v. Raptors, Season XXI. “Do I even want to know how you got these?”

“I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you mean.”

“That still leaves a lot of unsavory possibilities.”

She shrugs. “I have Mr. Dodd for gym. He loves me. So I told him I was doing a spirit club project about the history of Watonka’s athletics program and wanted to see the DVDs. He gave me the football ones, too, but I’m saving those for my private collection.”

I laugh. “You joined spirit club?”

“I would, if Watonka High had one. I’d be the president of that piece. Holla!”

I return her double high five and flip through the rest of the pile. “This is awesome. Thank you.”

“Thank me later,” she says. “Let’s eat so we can bounce.”

With a little bribery of the Andrew Jackson nature for Mrs. Ferris and the Mom-radar jammed under the guise of a French study session at Dani’s house, my best ami and I hit up the Wolves game. The task of finding good seats proves completely unchallenging. Aside from us, the hockey boys, the opposing Raptors, the coaches, two refs, and the AV club freshman who films the games, there aren’t many people here—a handful of families and girlfriends—twenty spectators at most. The highest section is closed off with yellow rope, and only one side of the concessions wall is open.

“Welcome to Ghostville,” Dani says.

I hush her as the buzzer sounds and the ref drops the puck between the opposing teams. Raptors take it first, the center forward rapidly slicing his way to the Wolves’ goal zone. Amir stops him, cradling the puck and knocking it into Raptor territory. Raptors take it back. Then Wolves. And on it goes for several uneventful minutes until the end of first period, when Josh finally takes a shot at the net—first attempt of the game. The Raptors dude saves it, ending round one.

From the penalty box, Coach Dodd consults his clipboard, calling out an occasional pointer or swapping players with as much enthusiasm as Trick remaking my screwed-up orders. He doesn’t seem to notice the obvious, plain as the white of the ice: Despite the scoreless second period, the guys are skating great. For the first time in a decade, they’re not losing. They’re holding it down in the goal zone, and other than a few recoverable mistakes, they’re keeping the puck away from the Raptors’ offense, weaving around the other team, unpredictable yet balanced, aggressive yet controlled.

“I think they listened to me,” I say. “They’re really keeping it together out there.”

“You surprised?” Dani asks. “I’m not trying to join the Wolf Pack Fan Club or anything, but you’re an amazing skater, Hud. They should watch your DVDs.”