The knee still screamed betrayal.
The resolve that had crystallized during her walk across the snow-covered quad carried Silver through the athletic complex's glass doors and down the familiar corridor that led to Ingalls Rink. Each step on the rubber matting felt like walking toward either salvation or disaster—she couldn't tell which, and maybe that uncertainty was exactly what she needed.
The rink was nearly empty in the aftermath of the storm, most of the campus still buried under snowdrifts or bundled safely in warm dormitories and dining halls where normal people spent January mornings recovering from the previous night's weather drama. But here, in the bowels of Yale's athletic facilities, the air carried the familiar cocktail of Zamboni fuel and cold iron that had lived in her lungs since she was six years old and had first stepped onto competitive ice.
