Maya's POV
The skate blade caught on the ice and I went down hard.
Pain exploded through Jake's knees as I hit the frozen surface. His hockey stick clattered away, sliding across the rink. Around me, the entire team stopped and stared.
"Morrison!" Coach Martinez's voice boomed from the bench. "What the hell was that?"
I tried to stand up, but Jake's legs—my legs—wobbled like jelly. The skates felt like wearing knives on my feet. How did anyone balance on these things?
"Sorry, Coach!" I called out, finally managing to get upright. "I just... slipped."
"You've been skating since you were five years old," Coach said, his eyes narrowing. "You don't just slip."
Marcus skated over, moving smoothly across the ice like it was nothing. "Dude, are you okay? You look like you've never been on skates before."
"I'm fine," I lied, trying to push off the way I'd seen Jake do it a hundred times.
I immediately fell again.
The team burst into laughter. Even Tyler, who usually took everything seriously, was cracking up.
"This is hilarious!" someone shouted. "Morrison finally sucks at something!"
My face—Jake's face—burned with embarrassment. This must be how I looked when Jake humiliated me. Small. Pathetic. Like everyone's joke.
"Enough!" Coach blew his whistle. "Morrison, get off the ice. We need to talk."
I crawled—actually crawled—toward the edge of the rink, where I could grab the wall and pull myself up. My hands were shaking inside Jake's thick hockey gloves.
This was a disaster.
In the locker room, Coach sat down across from me, his face serious.
"What's going on with you?" he asked. "And don't tell me nothing. I've coached you for three years. This isn't you."
"I'm just having an off day," I said, my voice cracking.
"An off day is missing a few shots. This is like you forgot how to skate." Coach leaned forward. "Is this about that girl? The one who went missing?"
My stomach twisted. "Maya."
"Yeah. Maya Chen." Coach's expression softened. "Look, I saw the video. What you did was wrong. But beating yourself up won't help anyone."
"I'm not beating myself up," I said quietly. "I'm trying to fix it."
"By forgetting how to play hockey?"
I wanted to tell him the truth. Wanted to scream that I wasn't Jake, that I was Maya trapped in his body, that none of this was fair.
But who would believe that?
"Can I have the day off?" I asked instead. "To clear my head?"
Coach studied me for a long moment. "One day. Tomorrow you better be back to normal, or we're having a serious conversation about your spot on the team."
"Thank you, Coach."
I left the locker room and found Jake—in my body—waiting outside.
"That bad?" he asked.
"Worse." I sat down on the bench, exhausted even though I'd barely done anything. "I can't do this, Jake. I can't be you."
"You have to learn," Jake said, but his voice was shaking. "Because I just spent two hours in your biology class, and everyone kept asking me if I was okay after 'what happened with Jake.'" He laughed bitterly. "Do you know how weird it is to have people comfort you for something you did to yourself?"
"At least they were nice to you," I muttered. "Your team laughed at me."
"That's what they do. They're hockey players." Jake sat down next to me. "But you're right. This is harder than I thought."
We sat in silence, both of us scared and lost.
"The text said I have to score the winning goal," I finally said. "How am I supposed to do that when I can't even stand up on ice?"
"And I have to publicly apologize to you," Jake said. "But how? I can't exactly stand in front of everyone and say 'I, Maya, forgive myself.'"
"This is impossible."
"No." Jake's jaw tightened—my jaw, which looked so weird when it was determined. "We just need to practice more. Come on."
"Come on where?"
"Back to the rink." Jake pulled me to my feet. "It's late. Everyone will be gone. I'll teach you how to skate properly."
"You're in my body," I pointed out. "How are you going to teach me?"
"By telling you what to do." Jake's eyes—my eyes—were fierce. "We don't have time to give up. We have 36 hours left, and seven other people are counting on us."
He was right. But that didn't make me any less terrified.
---
The rink was empty and dark except for the emergency lights. Jake made me put the skates back on, and just the act of lacing them up made my hands sweat.
"Okay," Jake said, standing at the edge of the ice. "First rule: don't think about falling. The more you worry about it, the more it'll happen."
"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to do it."
"Just trust me." Jake's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Stand up. Hold the wall. Now push off with your left foot."
I did what he said, and immediately felt myself wobbling.
"Don't lean back! Lean forward!" Jake called out. "Hockey players always lean forward!"
I leaned forward and suddenly I was moving. Not smoothly, not gracefully, but moving.
"Good! Now push with your right foot! Alternate them!"
For five glorious seconds, I was skating. Actually skating.
Then my feet tangled together and I crashed into the wall.
"Better!" Jake said, and he actually sounded proud. "You lasted longer that time!"
We practiced for an hour. I fell approximately forty times. But each time, I got a little bit better. A little bit more comfortable in Jake's strong body.
"You're getting it," Jake encouraged. "By tomorrow, you'll be able to skate with the team."
"But skating and playing are different," I panted, exhausted. "How do I learn the actual game?"
"One step at a time." Jake helped me off the ice. "Tomorrow we'll work on stick handling. Then shooting. We'll cram three years of training into five days."
"That's impossible."
"So is body switching, but here we are." Jake smiled—my smile, which looked strange but kind. "We can do this, Maya. We have to."
I wanted to believe him. But as we left the rink, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were missing something. Something important about Victoria and the curse and why this was happening.
My phone—Jake's phone—buzzed.
Another text from the unknown number: Good effort tonight. But effort isn't enough. Tomorrow, Jake's father will demand to see him play. If you can't convince him you're his son, he'll pull you from the tournament. Game over.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
"What?" Jake grabbed the phone and read the message. His face went pale. "My dad knows hockey better than anyone. He'll know immediately that you're not me."
"Then what do I do?"
"I don't know!" Jake's voice rose in panic. "He can read me like a book! He'll take one look at you and know something's wrong!"
We stared at each other, the reality of our situation crushing down on us.
Tomorrow, I had to convince Jake's father that I was his son.
A father who knew Jake better than anyone.
A father who would see through any lie.
And if I failed, the tournament—and our chance to switch back—was over before it even began.