Because we're a small-town team of sixteen girls who win some and lose some, and unless you grew up here, you don't stay in the Upper Peninsula forever. Coach did not grow up here.

There's something in Coach's tone that freezes me in place before her sparsely decorated desk. Beside her laptop, she always keeps a current team picture and a framed, signed Julie Chu puck. And they aren't there now. In fact, the desk calendar has been torn off to a blank sheet and the whiteboard on the wall, usually crowded with lines and drills has been scrubbed clean.

I'm happiest when I have skates on my feet, a stick in my hands and teammates by my side.

Brie passes me her half-used tissue. We're running low and rationing essentials at this point. She's still in the anger phase of the grief paradigm. Self-diagnosis: her mom is a psychiatrist.

Coach Henson has been here three years and he's still trying to whip those boys into shape. My guess is he's getting nervous watching his game clock tick down. He can't afford to take a chance on us.