The lock clicked open with a sound far too soft for Drew’s liking. A cheap little youth locker, designed more for keeping spare socks out of reach than for guarding valuables, gave way with nothing more than a swipe of an old library card Kate had picked up from the bottom of the lost and found bin.
Drew winced as the metal latch popped. “This is so wrong,” he muttered, shifting on bare feet that were far too small, his black practice pants loose but tied snug around his skinny waist.
Kate, already grinning ear to ear, shoved the locker door open. “This is so right. What, you want to sit around in oversized underwear for the next twelve hours? No thanks. If I’ve got this body, I’m going to see what it can do.”
The rows of lockers smelled faintly of sweat, plastic, and laundry detergent. Inside, mismatched pads and gear were piled up like a treasure hoard—shin guards, elbow pads, chest protectors, helmets still sticky with tape. Kids’ equipment, bright and light, nothing like the heavier gear Drew remembered from his late teens.
He hesitated. But she was right. What else were they going to do—sit around and gawk at their own reflections until the twelve hours ran out? That would drive him insane. At least skating was something he could do. He had grown up on it, spent winters carving ruts in frozen ponds back in another state. He had quit before high school, but the basics had never left him.
And now? He had a young, wiry athlete’s body. It would almost be a crime not to test it.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the pads. “But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” Kate said, already pulling a chest protector free.
The gear was smaller than anything Drew had ever worn—tiny, almost laughably so. But when he lifted the chest pad, he realized it fit his current frame perfectly. Sliding it on was surreal; the straps hugged narrow shoulders, the plastic plates covering ribs that felt too fragile without it. The bright colors startled him—vivid blues and yellows that screamed youth league, nothing like the darker, more serious gear of adult teams.
“Here,” he said, kneeling awkwardly to sort through shin guards. His hands were deft, smaller but steady. “You’ve got to strap these tight, or they’ll shift. Hockey’s not gentle.”
Kate blinked at the pile of gear, clearly overwhelmed. “I have no idea what goes where.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Drew sighed, sorting pieces by instinct. It was strange—his body remembered this, even if his mind hadn’t thought about hockey in years. The muscle memory was real.
Piece by piece, he helped Kate suit up. Strapping shin guards snug against wiry legs. Sliding elbow pads over narrow arms. Fitting the chest protector and shoulder pads, adjusting the straps so they didn’t slip. She grinned through the whole process, though her excitement dimmed briefly when Drew handed her the final piece.
“What’s that?” she asked, frowning at the small molded plastic cup.
Drew’s cheeks burned. He looked away, trying not to squirm in his too-loose jersey. “That’s… protection. For, uh, down there. You need it. Pucks bounce. Sticks swing. Accidents happen.”
Realization dawned. Her grin faltered, and a flush crept across her new boyish cheeks. “Oh.” She swallowed, looking down at her small frame. “Right. I guess I’ve got… something to protect now.”
“Yeah,” Drew muttered, suddenly very aware of his own. “Better get used to it.”
The silence that followed was awkward, broken only by the snap of straps and the rustle of fabric. But once the gear was fully on, the embarrassment faded. They looked—well, they looked like members of the youth team. Compact, bright uniforms. Pads fitted snug around small frames.
“Helmets,” Drew said, reaching for the rack. He tossed one to Kate, then tugged his on. The chin strap clicked into place with a satisfying snap.
The final touch was skates. That, at least, wasn’t easy. Youth sizes varied wildly, and it took four tries before they each found a pair that fit their smaller feet. Drew laced his with quick, practiced motions, tugging the leather tight. Kate fumbled, groaning until Drew knelt again to help.
“Pull here, then cross,” he explained, tying the laces firm. “Tighter’s better. You don’t want to slide around in the boot.”
When they finally stood, helmets on, jerseys bright, skates snug, they looked like mirror images of twin brothers ready for practice.
Drew caught his reflection again in the mirror. For the first time since the transformation, he didn’t look like a stranger. He looked like… a hockey kid. A player. And that stirred something warm in his chest.
“Ready?” Kate asked, bouncing on her blades.
Drew sighed. “Might as well.”
The ice waited beyond the heavy doors. Cold air swept out as Drew pushed them open, the sharp smell of frozen water filling his lungs. The rink spread before them—freshly resurfaced after the storm, the smooth surface gleaming under the lights.
Kate let out a boyish whoop and skated forward, wobbling for a moment before finding her balance. Drew followed, cautious at first, then surer with each push.
It was astonishing. His legs moved effortlessly, his body light and springy. The blades cut clean into the ice, each stride powerful despite the smaller muscles. Tyler’s body knew this. Every motion carried echoes of practice, of discipline. Muscle memory guided him, steadier than his own thoughts.
He pushed harder, gaining speed, then turned sharply. The skates bit the ice, and he felt a rush of exhilaration. God, this feels good.
Kate was clumsy at first, her strides uneven, but she adapted quickly. Within minutes, she was skating laps, laughing, her voice ringing across the empty rink.
Drew couldn’t help smiling.
“Puck!” he called, veering toward the storage cubby. He grabbed a stick, then another, and a single black puck. Tossing one stick to Kate, he dropped the puck on the ice.
She nearly fumbled it, but Drew guided her hands, adjusting her grip. “Left hand on top, right hand low. Keep it steady. Hockey’s all about balance.”
Then he tapped the puck forward, sliding it across the ice toward her.
Kate caught it—barely—but her grin widened as she nudged it back.
“See?” Drew said, chasing it down. He flicked it forward again, and this time she caught it cleanly, sending it back with surprising speed.
The rhythm built. Pass, catch, return. Each exchange smoother, faster. Drew’s instincts surged back, buried under years but never gone. He darted forward, stick handling, weaving the puck between his blades. Kate laughed and chased him, her determination fierce.
“Let’s try something real,” she said suddenly, breathless with excitement. “What do they call it? A scrum?”
Drew smirked. “Scrimmage. You sure?”
Kate’s grin turned cocky, her new boyish face alight. “Bring it on, bro. I’m all game.” She pitched her voice higher, mocking a kid’s bravado.
Drew barked a laugh. “Fine. Let’s play.”
They launched into it. Chasing the puck, colliding, shoving, stealing. Their sticks clashed, blades scraping as they battled for control. Kate whooped as she stole the puck and shot it toward the goal. Drew darted after her, intercepting, spinning, firing back.
If anyone had been watching, it would have looked like twin brothers playing a heated pickup game. Their laughter echoed, sharp and bright, as they dared each other into faster, riskier moves. Drew marveled at how natural it felt—how easy skating was in this small body, how sharp and alive he felt.
Minutes blurred. They lost themselves in the game, in the rhythm of passes and shots, in the rush of speed and the cold bite of air on their cheeks.
Until—
“OYYYY!”
The shout cracked across the rink like a gunshot.
Both boys froze. Drew’s stomach dropped.
A heavyset man stood at the edge of the ice, his round face red, his thick arms crossed. The rink manager. Drew’s boss.
“What the hell do you two kids think you’re doing?” he barked, his voice echoing. “Breaking in? Skating like it’s your own private playground? Out—before I call the police!”
Drew’s chest tightened. His boss didn’t recognize him. Of course not. Why would he? All he saw were two nine-year-old boys in stolen uniforms.
Kate skated closer to Drew, her eyes wide. “What do we do?” she hissed.
Options churned in Drew’s head. They could run—skate fast, slip out the back, vanish into the storm debris still littering the streets. They could try to explain—but who would believe them? To his boss, they were just trespassing kids.
Or—
They could use the medallion. The very thing that had changed them might be able to bend the situation.
But they had nine hours left before they could switch back.
Drew’s breath came quick, his heart pounding.
Run? Talk? Or risk using the medallion?
The manager’s voice bellowed again, louder, angrier: “You hear me, brats? OUT! Before I throw you out myself!”
Drew and Kate locked eyes, twin reflections of fear and uncertainty.
The choice was theirs.
And time was running out.
