To Mend or Rend
Morgan J. Muir
45:00 / 0-0
Her skates squeaked with every step along the rubber mats lining the path to the ice rink. Annoyingly, it was not something fixable by any of the magic Mels possessed, even had she been whole. The soft cloth of her shoulder pads rubbed rough against her back and shoulders as she walked, and she tugged the front of her jersey away from her neck. It wouldn’t be long now.
Sounds of anticipation bounced around the hockey rink, echoing the feelings in her gut. She swallowed back the tightness in her throat, stopping a few steps from the mass of teenage testosterone that was her male teammates. This time would be different. There were rules on the ice, limits to what force could be used, and how, and when. But the ice also provided freedom.
Mels touched her long, dark braid, double-checking that it remained tucked fully into the back of her jersey.
The boys cracked their usual crass jokes with each other, a couple sparking their magic in small flashes. A few heckled the team waiting down the boards as the Zamboni finished resurfacing the ice. Kerr, the team captain, smoothed the fresh tape on his stick with a puck. A trio of tiny wolf illusions he created paced alongside each stroke of his hand.
Mels forced herself to breathe, ignoring the familiar stink of the boys’ hockey gear, and ran her eyes over the other team. They gathered at the other end of the rink, blue-and-silver mirrors to her own team’s red and black. Her stomach tightened. The Wizards team was all about the same height, with a couple shorter guys. He wasn’t there.
Relief flooded through her as she looked away, followed quickly by irritation. She wanted this to be over already. Confront him, take back what was hers. Be whole. If he wasn’t here—
“You finally gonna knock someone down this time, Rouk?” Kerr asked her with a friendly shove.
Mels shrugged, shifting her weight on her squeaking skates. No one else’s skates squeaked. Kerr turned away with a chuckle.
The sharp thud of the gate closing behind the Zamboni echoed through the rink. She grinned as Munro lifted the latch, opening the Wolves’ door, and her team flowed onto the ice.
As Mels neared the door, her world pared away to the frozen boundaries of the rink that waited a single step away. No matter her problems outside the rink, they would all fall away the moment her skates touched the ice. Despite her terrified hopes, this would be just another game.
Something tugged at her magic, drawing on it, gently, subtly. Mels froze, her head whipping back toward the other team.
He strode toward the ice, a head taller than anyone on his team. Mels’s breath came in gasps.
Joel.
She could still hear him laughing at her. He stopped and looked at her.
Mels immediately dropped her gaze, her hands tightening on her stick. She could feel his amusement through her magic. It sickened her.
“Move it, Rouk,” someone behind her said, hitting her calves lightly with their stick. “Game’s on the ice.”
Scowling, Mels stepped forward, shifting from a world of stillness and friction to one of smooth, effortless freedom. The ice crunched beneath her blades as she pushed forward, the chill air cooling the heat in her face. She could feel him still.
Mels slammed her stick onto the ice, deftly maneuvering past the red-and-black uniforms of her teammates as they warmed up. This time they would be in public, and Joel wouldn’t be able to fight back. Mels’s stick, nearly as tall as she was, shot out and picked up a puck, sliding it along the ice.
His magic had sliced into hers. Mels’s blades sliced the ice with each stride, driving toward the net. Sliced away bits of her soul.
Stealing her magic.
This time, she would do whatever it took to get her magic back.
Even if it meant Rending.
Mels pulled back her arm then slammed her stick into the puck. A slight twist of her wrist as it connected lifted the puck from the ice, the slap shot echoing with a crack in her ears. Her goalie snagged it out of the air with his glove and threw it at her as she sped past. The puck hit her shoulder pads and dropped to the ice behind her as she queued up in the corner.
“We’re trying to warm up the goalie, not kill him,” Kerr said, his voice tense. “Save it for the game.”
“Right,” Mels muttered as he passed his puck and skated out into the warm-up. Translucent images of wolves flowed beside him, obscuring his movements.
She couldn’t feel her fingers in her heavy gloves. She was here, with Joel, on the ice. The last missing piece of her soul not a hundred feet away, a connection unseen, unknown to any but her and him. Suddenly, all her plans for taking it from him fled her mind. She could still leave. She didn’t have to face him.
Munro slapped her shin pads with his stick, jerking her from her thoughts. “Good to see you worked up. You finally going to check someone tonight?”
“You guys keep asking me that.” She could check Joel and rip her magic from his grip. She was tall and strong. She could out-check everyone on her team. She could do that.
But he’s bigger. Stronger. The quiet voice twisted in her mind. He destroys, and you only bind. You won’t be able to Rend it from him.
“Well, you know, there’s a bet on if you’ll finally do it this season. We all know you can, we just don’t get why you don’t.”
Mels shrugged. Munro laughed and took his turn in the warm-up.
You can’t beat him at his game. You’re not aggressive enough. Mels shook her head. It’s why she played defense. But if she wanted her magic back, she needed to be something she was not. She had to.
Or you can leave. He’ll just hurt you again if you stay.
Her senses pulled at her, and Mels glared at the other team. At Joel.
He would just keep hurting her if she didn’t do something.
32:07 / 0-1 Wizards
At the shrill tone of the referee’s whistle, Mels swung her legs over the boards, pulling her ethereal shields tighter around her. She dropped lightly to the ice as the previous line returned to the bench. So far, her line had not been out against Joel’s.
Every time she made it through a line change without facing him was a relief. And a frustration. She needed to face him somehow, and while they were on the ice. She couldn’t get past his defenses out in the real world, where there were no rules to hold him back. There she was like a child beating against a wall while he laughed. But tonight they were both playing defense.
Had he chosen defense deliberately? He’d played forward when he’d been with the Wolves.
Mels flowed across the ice, taking position in front of her goalie for the face-off. She set her stick into position as the Wizards’ wing lined up against her, the click of his blade against ice echoing hollowly across the rink. Minding the movements of the ref in her periphery, she watched the blue-and-silver mass before her.
But the part of her Joel carried called to her from where he sat on the Wizards’ bench. Did the connection go both ways? Did he feel her too? Her chest tightened with anger at the thought. If she made it through his defenses, was she really capable of doing what she needed to get it back? To tear it from him as he’d done to her?
A chill stole across her at the thought of Rending a soul.
Even his.
“Stupid girl,” the boy across from her hissed as the ref held out the puck. Almost as one, all ten players moved into place, sticks on the ice. “No wonder your team sucks.”
Anger flared through Mels as the puck dropped. Instinctively, she dropped her shoulder as the wingman surged toward her, the centers to her right fighting for control of the puck. The chorus of stick hits, blades, and crackling shields hitting together rose above the dampened silence of the rink.
Several pucks rushed away from the fighting centers. Mels ignored the projections while others flinched. The real puck burst toward Mels, and the wingman shoved her out of the way.
For an instant, options flashed through her mind as the players moved around her.
She could send a quick light flare over the puck and deflect it to her forward.
She could knock the wingman’s stick aside when he reached for the puck.
Or she could power forward and check him.
Attack.
Instead, Mels hesitated. She was a defender. The dark puck landed safely on the wingman’s stick. Bursting forward, Mels slid her stick beneath his and lifted. There was no resistance in his shock; he’d thought she’d try to check him. Mels kicked the puck onto her own stick as she passed.
Mels glanced up, and a flash of light tried to blind her. She knocked it away with her shield. Before her the ice lay clear. Ahead and to her left skated a black-and-red Wolves jersey. To the right charged the wingman she’d just beat.
Mels passed the puck and braced. She dug her skates into the ice and dropped a hand from her stick as two hundred pounds of solid teenage boy slammed into her shoulder like a tank. She pushed back at the moment of impact, feeling the power in her legs and back, and lifted. The crash of their shoulder pads swallowed the small pop of their shields. A moment later, the Wizards’ wingman sat on his butt on the ice, and Mels was halfway down the rink.
Behind her, she felt her own thrill at the game echo. Joel had come onto the ice. Mels wanted to scream at the intrusion. This world, this emotion was hers, and he had no place sharing it with her. Sound faded as she watched the play, moving her position in tandem with the puck, her heartbeat filling her ears. He was on the ice.
Her chance was now.
She could try. She would try.
You will fail.
The puck shot past her, and Mels started, her breathing rapid. She hadn’t been paying attention.
The whistle blew, and Joel skated past, smirking at her. She tugged at her shoulder pads that rode up against her neck, choking her. Someone hit her shoulder and gestured to the bench. Nodding, Mels retreated to safety. Off the ice. Away from Joel.
Sound returned to her as Mels dropped into place beside her fellow defensemen, shoving them down the bench with her hips. Everyone shuffled to make room for the players fresh from the ice, and she reached for a water bottle. Kerr reached behind the guy next to him and gave her helmet a friendly pat. She knew exactly what he was going to say.
“Next time, check him first and don’t throw the puck away.”
Be aggressive.
17:56 / 2-4 Wizards
Mels watched from her point at the blue line as her forwards shot at the Wizards’ net. Her job was simple. Don’t let the puck pass the blue line. Catch any loose puck and dump it back toward the net for her forwards. She was a defenseman. Not a forward.
Mels was not aggressive.
But she could be.
This time she would be.
She crouched, her stick on the ice, watching the puck dart from player to player, shifting along the ice with the play. She tried to ignore Joel. Right now was not the right time. Right now he was just another player. A force unto himself. Using her stolen magic for something as stupid as a high school sport.
There are worse things.
Mels shivered despite the heat of the game.
A Wizard broke free, angling toward center ice.
Joel.
She should check him.
Mels spun toward her net and powered forward, skating parallel with Joel. They passed the center line, and she lengthened her stride, gaining speed and pulling ahead of him. He was stronger, more powerful. But she was faster. He angled toward the boards. She would herd him into the corner behind the net.
Deftly, she flipped around, skating backward and gaining speed. The second blue line passed beneath their blades as they entered the Wolves’ defensive zone.
In one stride she pulled in front of him, meeting his eyes.
He looked back, pulling harder on her magic to shield himself. It twisted inside her.
She should check him.
Instead, she swung her stick at his, trying to knock the puck free.
Another stride. Joel leaned his weight on his stick, refusing to be moved.
They were only a heartbeat or two from the net.
Joel allowed himself to be herded to the boards. The other eight players, rushing toward them, had not yet made it across center ice.
Mels stood between him and the goal. She could lean into her blades, gather her power into her knees, and drop a hand from her stick. She could reach for the slice of her magic he held. Tear it from him.
She could be the attacker for once. Not just the defender.
A heartbeat passed.
He feinted left toward the boards, and she followed, obscuring his chance at a clean shot. Suddenly, the puck bounced off the boards to her left as Joel cut hard to the right, sweeping around her.
He had outmaneuvered her. Again. She resisted the impulse to charge at him, her stick swinging. Anything to stop the laugh echoing through her magic and into her mind. She turned, keeping her face toward him. Joel picked up the puck, but was too deep to get a good shot on net. Snow sprayed into the air from her blades as she stopped, taking her place to reinforce the goalie.
The second Wolves’ defenseman crossed into their zone, but not quickly enough.
Mels could feel Joel gloat as he wrapped around the net and slipped the puck past the Wolves’ goalie. Her hands formed fists around her stick.
Next time, she would check him.
Next time, she would win.
6:02 / 2-6 Wizards
Exhaustion pushed at Mels. She fought back. Weakness had no place here. Bodies of blue and silver contended with black and red, fighting for possession. Fighting for the goal. Fighting back the invaders and protecting the all-important bit of black rubber.
Mels stood her ground as her opponent shoved her. She would not be moved. She reached out with her stick, knocking his away as the puck neared him.
Suddenly, the puck lay cradled on her stick. She glanced around for someone she could send it to. All her teammates were covered.
For a moment, panic froze the world around her. She was a defenseman. She had no business with the puck. But she could not pass it without risking an interception and goal. They would score again.
Not they. Him.
Joel.
No. He would not have this. Gritting her teeth, Mels surged forward, the puck firmly on her stick. The others were occupied, but the ice beyond Joel was clear.
She needed only to get through Joel.
And he would come to her.
Mels twisted past the other players; few of them could match her speed.
This time she would do it.
This time she was the aggressor.
She could feel Joel grinning, challenging her. Rage built in her chest as he drew on her magic, on the scrap of her soul he had stolen—the part he had kept. He pushed forward at her, squaring his shoulders to hers.
She braced herself, hands gripping her stick as she slammed straight into him.
She shoved her rage into him, pushing against his thick chest. Light exploded around them, and she grasped for that which was hers, ready to Rend it from him. Ready to tear it free.
She brushed against it, touching her own soul. As familiar as her own reflection.
It slid away from her like silk.
A deep, deafening boom ripped through her, throwing her back.
A whistle blew, and she found herself laying on the ice, Joel already up on his knees a few feet away. The force of their impact ached through her bones as she stood, a sharp pain flaring in her hip. The scrap of her soul called to her, still held firmly in the prison of his grip. Still behind a shield he’d used her own power to create.
He met her eyes and pulled on her magic again, her stomach twisting.
Mels charged toward him, but arms in red-and-black jerseys held her back, bodies in the same colors came between them. Mels raised her fist at Joel, ready to scream her rage, but her hand disappeared under a glamour as her voice went silent in her throat. She glared at Kerr.
“Light, Rouk, I didn’t mean like that.” Kerr scowled, forcing her to turn away from Joel.
She snapped her teeth shut and dropped her hand, and Kerr released his magic.
“But that was pretty damn impressive.” Munro slapped her on the back.
The ref called out a penalty, and Mels recognized her number. Cross-checking. So stupid. She’d let herself get angry enough that she’d forgotten to drop her hand off the stick. Too angry to grasp her own soul. She’d been so close.
The referee called a second penalty, this one against Kerr for using his magic out-of-bounds. He’d saved her from a second penalty that might have removed her from the game entirely. She might have lost her chance. And Joel knew it. He’d manipulated her. He’d won. Again.
The referee escorted them to the penalty box as she glared at Joel.
4:43 / 2-6 Wizards
Mels dropped onto her seat in the box, Kerr beside her. Leaning her stick against her shoulder, she rested her elbows on her knees. She was an idiot. She would never get it back. She slipped her hands from her oversized gloves, rubbing her wrists. No one could help her; it was her word against his. Even her friends had disappeared, off with their own troubles. And she could not stand against Joel on her own. He always won.
“Hey, Mels,” Kerr said hesitantly.
Mels looked up. No one on the team ever used her first name.
“Look, I don’t know what it is you have against Joel.” He raised a gloved hand. “And don’t tell me you don’t. I’ve never seen you so … well, so not like yourself.
“Here’s the thing. Everyone keeps telling you to play more like us. Be forceful and whatever. But you’re no good at it. I mean, well, you are good at it. But you’re not.
“The thing is, you’re good at you. Like, you do the tricky stuff. Moving sticks and whatever. No one expects that. They all think you’re gonna be like them. Checking. Forcing your way through. That sort of thing. But you don’t, and it surprises them. And that’s what you gotta do. You know. Be you. Play your way, not theirs.”
Mels rolled her head toward him. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you give.”
“Yeah, well.” Kerr looked up at the blade of his stick, twirling it around. “I never liked Joel anyway. Even when he was on the team.”
Kerr’s time in the box wasn’t long. The Wizards quickly scored on the shorthanded Wolves, and he dashed back to the ice.
4:10 / 2-7 Wizards
What did they want from her, anyway? Mels rested her head against her stick and closed her eyes, ignoring the game in the solitude of the penalty box. Munro and the others wanted her to play more like them. Kerr said to play like herself. Why did it even matter?
Her teammates kept playing even though they’d already lost. Winning was impossible.
So why keep playing?
And none of it even mattered when her only chance of something far more important than a high school sports game—even one she loved to play—was slipping away. She was never going to get it back. He would always have it, siphoning away threads of herself until nothing that was her remained.
And it was her own fault. She’d been so stupid. Getting angry, letting herself lose focus. And now she was helpless to change anything. The story of her life. Alone, and unable to even help herself.
For three years her teammates had teased her about checking in a game. Now she could take down anyone on the team. But not in-game, apparently. Not when it mattered.
Just like how she’d spent the last year working to improve her skills, strengthen her magic, hold her shields without thinking. And she was good. Very good. She’d even, reluctantly, carefully taught herself to Rend. But not like Joel did.
Never like Joel.
Bitterness colored her small smile. She was a defenseman. Defender. D. That was what she did. It was what she was. But defensiveness never scored points. Passivity never won.
Aggression had never done her any favors before, either.
It certainly didn’t now.
Yes, she’d worked hard and could compete with the boys. She played as well as any of them. But she couldn’t beat Joel at his own game. She never had. She never would.
She had clearly lost.
But can you really stop trying?
A tapping on the glass made her look up. Her teammate gestured to the clock and then to the bench, indicating she should return rather than play out. She glanced up, and only a few seconds remained of her penalty.
Familiar anticipation filled her at the thought of getting back onto the ice. Why keep playing, even though they’d clearly lost? She couldn’t help but grin.
Because the game was not over yet.
Taking a deep breath, Mels stood and reached for the door.
2:17 / 2-7 Wizards
Findley charged toward the bench. “D! D!” he shouted, throwing himself over the boards.
Mels swung her legs over the boards to replace him, her skates on the ice before she had time to think. Play had shifted to the offensive zone as Findley had made for the line change, but now it moved quickly back toward the Wolves’ goalie.
And Mels had the advantage. Their bench was in their defensive zone. Mels was already in place.
She moved to intercept the lone forward.
Be you.
She grinned, feeling the chill air slide over her hot neck. The thrill of life surged through her as she moved effortlessly across the ice.
The forward bounced the puck off the boards to her left while moving to the right, the same move Joel had used earlier.
Play your way, not theirs.
Feeling almost casual, Mels twisted around, grabbing the puck with her long reach.
This time no one stood in her way.
She pushed forward, redirecting her momentum away from the opponent behind her. He could do nothing to her now.
Why keep playing?
Her Wolves harried the remaining Wizards as they all moved down the ice.
Mels played because she loved it.
She swung to the left, around a pair of Wizards, dancing out of their reach.
Mels played because she could.
She wasn’t one of the guys. Aggression wasn’t her game. It never had been. But sometimes a defender still needed to be a forward. For a moment.
Mels was past all the others. A single, familiar form remained between her and the net.
Joel.
Sometimes the best way through an obstacle …
Mels grinned as he squared up to check her, dropping his hand from his stick. He pulled at her magic, drawing strength into his shield as she mirrored his movements.
… is to not go through it at all.
At the last moment, Mels abandoned the puck to its momentum and danced to the left, pivoting around Joel’s hulking form to face his back. She picked up the puck he’d unwittingly skated past and twisted around to shoot.
Caught off guard, the Wizards’ goalie missed entirely.
0:00 / 3-7 Wizards Final
Mels stood in line with her fellow Wolves, each with their right hands ungloved to bump fists with the other team. Good sportsmanship and all.
She took a spot near the end, pleased to see Joel do the same. She pulled her braid from her jersey and draped it over her shoulder. With her stick tucked casually under one arm, Mels passed through the slow gauntlet, muttering “good game” with each fist bump. One kid pulled his hand away, muttering about girls and hockey. Mels rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to “fist bump” his shoulder instead.
As Joel approached, Mels’s heart sped up, but she kept her breathing slow. Relaxed. Only two players away now. One.
Instead of a bump, she grabbed Joel’s fist in her hand and met his eyes.
“You have something of mine,” she said quietly. She reached through the touch and found it. The piece of her self that he’d stolen.
And she would not need to Rend it from him.
This was her game. Calm, now, it did not recoil from her. Keeping his eyes, she sent a thread of her magic out, touching her own orphaned soul shard, and Bound.
The ties dissolved from Joel as she let go of his hand, her missing magic flowing home.
He spluttered as she turned away, shoving her hand back into her glove. Mels didn’t look back.
She was once again complete.
Morgan J. Muir has always loved telling stories, especially stories with magic, hardships, and—eventually—happy endings. She is working hard on becoming a crazy cat lady and on curating her collection of hobbies. Morgan lives with her family in Utah. You can find more of her work at morganjmuir.com.