My secret hockey player
Автор
Violet Crosby
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I am the prodigy niece of a famous ice hockey player. Accepted into medical school at the University of Pittsburgh, I leave my native Quebec to live with my uncle. But I am not alone: another hockey prodigy also lives there. From the moment we meet, the attraction is immediate and intense. Out of respect for my uncle, I hide my feelings, but some desires cannot be ignored. Our passion will give birth to two little prodigies, but our careers will test our love. After years of separation, fate will bring us together through hockey, albeit marked by a tragic accident. Will we succeed in overcoming these challenges or will fate be merciless?
Chapter 1: My Life Before Pittsburgh
Quebec, Canada
ELIZABETH
That morning, the sun flooded my room, filtering through the blinds like it was trying to give me some kind of forced light therapy session. I stretched, doing my best cat-in-the-sun impression. The night had been restless—full of those teenage dreams where you were the heroine of your own story, or at least the star of some Quebec soap opera.
I even had to give myself a little hug just to fall back asleep.
Red-haired and curvy, I was what you’d call the intellectual-sporty type. Yes, that was a thing. Books were my drug. Medicine was my calling. And hockey? Hockey was everything. It wasn’t just a sport. It was a family religion.
My uncle was a living legend on the ice. The kind of guy whose photo was in every Tim Hortons across Quebec. He’d passed that passion down to me a thousand times over. In our house, not liking hockey was like not liking maple syrup—completely unthinkable.
I’d finished high school two years early, just to prove to my parents that my brain wasn’t only filled with player statistics and playoff scenarios. From there I’d raced through my pre-med CEGEP in Quebec, and now, at eighteen, I’d sent applications to the four corners of America and Europe, all for medical programs.
But Pittsburgh was at the top of my list—not only because my uncle lived there, but because he owned the local team. And the icing on the cake? He was lacing up his skates again this year.
My uncle, at his age, was making a comeback. It was inspiring and slightly terrifying for his opponents. For me, it was the jackpot—guaranteed free games and a chance to see my cousins.
My Uncle Matthieu had a private jet—because taking the bus was for amateurs—and he’d pick us up, turning every trip into pure family bliss. Those moments when we sped down ski slopes, devoured authentic poutines, or debated for hours about the best strategy to win the Stanley Cup… That was life.
A knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts, which were dangerously drifting toward my favorite team’s latest jersey.
“Are you awake, sweetheart?” my mother whispered, her voice already signaling morning urgency.
“Yes, I’m coming!”
“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes, and you received an envelope,” she added. Her tone betrayed poorly disguised excitement. The envelope. The magic word.
I leapt out of bed, my heart pounding, ready to explode. Only one thing could put me in this state—my acceptance to the University of Pittsburgh. It was either that or a surprise invitation to a fashion show in Paris, but my chances were better for the first option.
I pulled on shorts and a hoodie—the combat uniform of a nerd seeking good news—then rushed down the stairs, my enthusiasm overflowing like a sugar shack at lunchtime.
“So, where is this envelope?!” I burst into the kitchen like a red-haired tornado.
“Whoa, easy there, sweetie. No hello to start the day?” my father replied, amused, sipping his coffee. He always knew how to bring me back to Earth.
“Good morning to you, my dear and tender parents!” I said with a mischievous wink, adding a dramatic curtsy for effect.
“That’s better,” Dad conceded, suppressing a smile. “Good morning to you too, sweetheart. You seem to be in a very good mood this morning.”
“You must know why, don’t you?”
“I have a little idea,” he said, a slightly strained smile on his lips. Dad wasn’t thrilled about the idea of me leaving the family nest, especially for another country. I was his only child—the pampered “little princess,” overprotected by my parents, uncles, and cousins.
Imagine the scene—the only girl among a horde of muscular, protective cousins who still saw me as a child to be defended. My only female cousins lived in Pittsburgh. They were younger than me, but they were my confidantes, my favorite guinea pigs for my wacky scientific theories, and I loved helping them with their studies.
Born in Pittsburgh, they were naturally bilingual, lucky them. They switched between languages without even thinking, like changing TV channels. I was born in Quebec, so a native French speaker, with the accent to match, which made everyone say, “Oh, you’re from Montreal?” when I was actually from Quebec City.
My many vacations in Pittsburgh and my bilingual cousins had helped me enormously in mastering English. But what helped me most was being a nerd.
I hated that word—it infuriated me. It made me feel like I had taped-up glasses and a calculator grafted to my hand. I preferred the term “superior intelligence.” Sounded classier, didn’t you think? And it justified my long nights spent poring over biochemistry books rather than partying.
I approached my father, placed a kiss on his cheek, and held out my hand for the envelope, my gaze pleading.
“Dear Daddy, you’ll see me so often on webcam that you’ll beg to turn off the screen after five minutes, tired of my whining.”
“You know that will never happen,” my mother interjected from behind me, placing a plate of delicious crepes on the table.
Those crepes…I would miss them. Crepes with pure maple syrup, the real deal, not the pale American imitation. My greedy side didn’t help with my round backside, which often exasperated me. It was a war between my passion for good Quebec food and my desire to have a behind worthy of fitness influencers.
I sat down and took the thick envelope my father handed me. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and counted to three. Then, feverishly, I opened what contained all my future dreams, my roadmap to independence (and free hockey games).
My heart stopped.
“OH MY GOD.” I couldn’t contain myself.
I jumped from my chair, bouncing in place and screaming as if I had just won the lottery. “I got it! I got it!”
I threw myself into my mother’s arms, an embrace of pure joy that almost knocked her over. My dream was finally a reality—I was accepted into the University of Pittsburgh, and with a scholarship. It was the Holy Grail, the culmination of all my sleepless nights spent studying instead of watching reruns of La Petite Vie (a very popular Quebec comedy TV series).
My father sighed—a mix of pride and resignation—and hugged me in turn.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart. But know that you’ll always be welcome here if you ever don’t like it there. Live this experience to the fullest.”
“I know, Dad. I have to call the whole family.” My mind was already in “news channel” mode.
My mother pointed the spatula at the table, a gesture that clearly meant “no negotiation.” “No, no, no. First, we eat while it’s hot, and only then will we make calls.”
I sighed, sat down with a pout, and nodded. Resisting a mother armed with a spatula was mission impossible. I dove into the crepes, generously dousing them with maple syrup, that nectar of the gods. I almost gulped down my juice in one go.
My mother gave me a disapproving look, and I slowed my pace, smiling apologetically, my cheeks full like a squirrel hoarding for the Quebec winter. My good manners—or what was left of them after this surge of joy—called me to order.
I respectfully waited for my parents to finish their meal before rushing to the phone, excitement gnawing at my insides.
I decided to call my uncle in Pittsburgh first. He had to be the first to know.
“Hello?” a small voice answered. My cousin Cora’s.
“Hello, cousin, can you put your dad on?”
“Hello, Lizzie. I’m glad you called,” Cora said, her voice full of cheer.
“I absolutely have to talk to your dad. I have fantastic news.”
“Oh really? What is it?”
I heard my uncle’s voice in the background, louder. “Cora, hit the intercom. We can all talk to her.” He never missed an opportunity for an impromptu family meeting.
“Good idea,” I said, my smile widening.
A few seconds later, everyone was on the line. I could almost smell my aunt’s coffee through the receiver.
“So,” my uncle said, his voice resonating like a sports commentator, “what’s happening that you’re calling us so early, my little Lizzie? Did you win the lottery?”
“Guess,” I blurted out, my voice trembling with excitement.
“Can we have a hint?” my Aunt Anna asked, always the most pragmatic.
“I received an envelope this morning.”
“That’s good news, judging by the tone of your voice,” my Uncle Matthieu remarked, the king of analysis, even without skates.
“Mega excellent news.”
“I think it’s your acceptance letter to the university,” my aunt said, her voice calm, but I knew she was as excited as I was.
“Yessssss!”
“Guess where?” I knew they already knew, but I loved to drag out the suspense. It was my little theatrical touch.
