The Unspoken Pass

Playoff heist

In the heart of winter's embrace, where the cold whispers of the season drew patterns of frost like nature's own artistry across the world, a hallowed ice rink lay bathed in the anticipatory glow of stadium lights. It was the cradle of dreams for the Bees, a place where the hum of anticipation for the first playoff game was palpable, where every breath hung in the air, crystalline and laden with the promise of the contest to come. On this defining day, as the puck drop loomed a mere twenty minutes away, an unusual stillness had settled upon the team. The heartbeats of the crowd and the players alike seemed to sync in a rhythm of expectancy, for Hope and Lizzie, the keystones of the team, were nowhere to be found.

The locker room echoed with the muted sound of preparation, but the air was threaded with an undercurrent of tension. Where could Hope and Lizzie be? The twin pillars upon which so many of the Bees' strategies were built? The rink seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the arrival of its champions, as the clock ticked down, relentless and indifferent to the anxiety that began to brew.

Hope, the very soul of her name, had always been a beacon—a guiding light of optimism and unwavering positivity. Her movements on the ice were a testament to her namesake, every glide and check a narrative of persistence that lifted the spirits of her teammates, galvanizing them to push beyond the realms of their capabilities.

Lizzie, the quiet powerhouse of strategy and insight, stood as the team's indomitable spirit. Her anticipation of play, her knack for being two moves ahead of the opposition, set her apart as a player whose presence on the ice was as crucial as the air they breathed. Together, Hope and Lizzie were a duet of ambition and skill, a synergy of heart and mind that propelled the Bees to greater heights.

The synergy between them was the heartbeat of the Bees. With the two of them absent, a void echoed through the team's spirit—a tangible reminder of the balance they brought to one another, and to the whole. Their comrades' skates traced lines of quiet anxiety, while their sticks tapped out a restless morse code, a yearning for their return.

Whispers began to weave through the stands, a restless murmuring tide, as the fans clutched their scarves and banners—a sea of support that began to stir with concern. The coaches paced, their expressions etched with contemplation, knowing well the dedication of their absent stars, yet unable to quell the flicker of uncertainty.

EARLIER THAT DAY

Before the day had fully stretched its morning hues across the sky, Hope and Lizzie were abuzz with the pre-dawn energy that only those about to embark on an important venture could feel. They were on the cusp of departure, minutes ticking away towards the time they would leave for the stadium for their morning practice, preceding what was to be one of the biggest games of their lives.

As they descended the stairs, the normalcy of the day took an abrupt and chilling turn. Hope's eyes were met with an incongruous sight — two large men clad in stark white outfits stood ominously in the foyer. A strange, unsettling aura emanated from them, making the air feel thicker, almost suffocating. It was bizarre, Hope thought, perhaps something her mother was involved in, but it did little to assuage the growing unease within her.

Lizzie followed moments later, unaware of the scene she was stepping into. Then, without warning, the morning's calm shattered like fragile glass against the stone of unforeseen malice. The men in white lunged, grasping Lizzie with an alarming strength while a third man, previously concealed, secured Hope in a vice-like grip, stifling her cries and struggle.

Hope's voice tore through the confusion, sharp with desperation, "You can't do this, Mom, she's not your kid!"

From the shadows, a voice, rough and cold, responded, "She is mine though." The voice belonged to the infamous figure of Lizzie's accounts — her father. As he stepped into view, the embodiment of the cruel tales Lizzie had recounted, he was every bit the menace spoken of, and even more harrowing in the flesh.