Chapter 45 Ice in My Veins
Lily’s POV:
I’ve always felt the ice in my veins—like it’s been there since before I can remember.
Some of my earliest memories aren’t of toys or playgrounds. They’re of cold air on my cheeks, the scrape of skates, and the sound of my dad’s voice saying, “Keep your knees bent, Lil. You’ve got this.”
I was four the first time I stepped on the backyard rink Dad had flooded. The skates were too big, the helmet swallowed my head, and I fell every three seconds. But I didn’t cry. I laughed. Because Dad was there, holding my hands, and nothing bad could happen when he was holding my hands.
I remember the day Mom—Holly—came into our lives. I was two, and everything still felt broken. Anna had left four years ago, and the house was too quiet. Dad tried, but his eyes were sad all the time.
Then Holly showed up with hot chocolate and a smile that made me feel safe. She didn’t try to be my mom right away. She just… was there. Reading books, tying my skates, cheering at games like she’d always been in the stands.
The first time I called her Mom, I was six . It slipped out over breakfast—“Mom, can you braid my hair for the game?”—and I froze, terrified I’d done something wrong.
But Holly’s eyes filled with tears, and she pulled me into the biggest hug. Dad’s hand found hers across the table, and I knew then that our family wasn’t broken anymore. It was just… different. And different could be good.
I remember Everett’s birth. I was eight, and Dad let me skip school to be at the hospital. I sat in the waiting room coloring hockey pictures while Holly labored. When they brought him out—tiny, red-faced, screaming—I touched his little hand and promised I’d teach him to skate.
Clara came when I was ten. Unexpected, but perfect. I remember holding her in the hospital, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and thinking, This is what family feels like—always growing, always room for more.
I remember my first real goal in a real game. I was seven, and the puck went in off my skate by accident. I was embarrassed, but Dad skated over from the bench (he was coaching my team that year) and lifted me up like I’d scored in overtime. “That’s my girl,” he said, and I believed him.
I remember the year I was twelve and everything felt heavy. Losses hurt more. Friends changed. I started wondering if I was only good at hockey—if that was all I was.
I remember crying in my room after a bad tournament, convinced I’d never be as good as Dad. Holly sat on my bed and let me cry without trying to fix it. Then she said, “You’re not just a hockey player, Lily. You’re kind and smart and funny and brave. The ice is lucky to have you.”
I remember the day I committed to Denver. Seventeen, standing in the kitchen with acceptance letters spread across the table. Dad’s eyes were proud but sad. Holly cried happy tears. Everett asked if he could have my room. Clara just hugged my legs and said, “Don’t go.”
I remember leaving for college—the drive to Denver with Dad, the dorm that smelled like new paint, the first night alone when I cried into my pillow because I missed them so much it hurt.
I remember my first college goal. I remember calling home after and hearing Clara scream “That’s my sister!” in the background.
I remember the day I signed with Boston. Twenty-two, sitting in the kitchen again, contract in front of me. Dad’s hand on my shoulder. Holly’s tears. Everett’s proud grin. Clara—fourteen now—jumping up and down shouting “Pro Lily! Pro Lily!”
I remember my first pro goal. The roar of the crowd, the weight of the jersey, the way I looked up at the Jumbotron and saw my family in the stands—Dad’s arm around Holly, Everett filming on his phone, Clara waving a sign that read “That’s my big sister!”
I remember thinking: This is what they gave me. Not just talent or opportunity. But belief. Love that never wavered. A home to come back to no matter how far I skated.
I remember every ordinary moment that wasn’t ordinary at all: backyard rinks at Christmas, Clara scoring on me and celebrating like she’d won the Cup, Everett letting her win every time, late-night talks with Holly about everything and nothing, Dad’s quiet “proud of you” after every game, win or lose.
I remember realizing, somewhere between my first college goal and my first pro one, that the ice in my veins wasn’t cold at all.
It was warm.
It was home.
It was them.
And no matter how far I went, how many banners I helped raise, how many dreams I chased—they were always there, in every stride, every shot, every heartbeat.
My family.
My beginning.
My forever.