Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  Like my FIRST OFFICIAL DATE WITH JACK RAY.

  Puck drop is at three o’clock, so most students are home for a pre-dance nap or spending ridiculous money on pedicures and updos. The cheerleaders are beat after cheering the boys’ basketball team to a loss, and all their hard work gift wrapping lockers. So the stands consist of parents, younger siblings and whichever unlucky girls said yes to my idiot teammates for the dance tonight and now have to show up here instead of getting their hair and nails done.

  No one has sabotaged my broom closet or my gear, so it’s gonna be a good day. I can’t lock the door from the inside, but Megan is sitting outside and we agreed on a knock-and-delay strategy if someone tries to come in. I’m not worried about putting Megan in a dangerous situation. As Coach’s stepdaughter, she’s safe. These boys are stupid, not suicidal.

  I’m getting used to my solitude before games. I listen to whatever music I want. I use the quiet to visualize plays. I’ve even given myself a few pep talks. Out loud. ’Cause why not?

  “Keep your feet moving in the corners,” I tell the spiders. “Wide, low stance on the draw,” I remind the mop bucket.

  I’m back at center. Right where I want to be. I never imagined I’d be playing so well that I could call the shots. I was always a good hockey player, for a girl. But I’m starting to think … maybe I’m just a good hockey player.

  I have to keep playing this well. I have to deliver. Like a pizza. Like FedEx. Like an obstetrician. Ick.

  Other than taking a shot in the middle of the back from Vaughn during warm-ups, presumably for taking his spot at center and relegating him to winger, the team is chill today. Most likely focusing today’s brain cell allotment on how to get into their dates’ strapless bras at the dance tonight.

  I catch a glimpse of Jack in the stands. He’ll have to leave in the third period, but he’s going straight to the pool from here so he can see as much of my game as possible. He sits in a crowd of random people: Laura, Delia and Emma, a couple of boy swimmers, a guy I recognize from my world history class and the exchange student from Finland. Jack is on the outskirts of the crowd but he looks comfortable there. Wherever he is, he’s just Jack.

  I think about his pennant and how I channel my isolation, like a swimmer. Except I’m a center now. Isolation can’t be my MO anymore. I’ll be drawing the puck to a teammate, I’ll be covering with them getting back on D.

  Or I’ll just be doing it all on my own now. Yes, I draw the puck back to a teammate. Yes, I call some plays. But we’re no team, me and these guys.

  During a stoppage of play, while the ref gives Avery a minute to fix a strap on his leg pad, the opposing center across the face-off dot makes conversation. “Not bad, Sixteen,” he says. “You’ve beat me three-oh so far. I’m taking a beating on the bench.”

  “Isn’t that why you wear all that padding?” I ask.

  He laughs. “If I finally win this one, can I get your number?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s sixteen.”

  He laughs again. From behind me, on D, Daniel grunts. “Manning!”

  I turn.

  He glares at me. “Shut the F up.”

  Both the ref and the other team’s center sputter in disbelief. I shrug them off. A mere comment from Daniel isn’t going to take me off my game anymore. The linesman standing next to Avery waves at the ref, who gives a short blast on his whistle and gestures for us to take our places. We crouch into our stance.

  “How ’bout if I hit your captain?” the center asks across the dot. “Can I have your number then?”

  I grin and sweep the puck back. Four-oh.

  I’m guessing “deliver” means I better come out of this game with at least one goal. And with the game tied late in the third, I’m starting to sweat. Even more than typical hockey-game sweating. I’ve had at least eight missed shots and haven’t even scuffed the goalie’s leg pads. Or his confidence. But that’s hockey. You can skate your butt off but you’re not guaranteed anything. The only control I have is over my own body, so I keep my legs moving, my stick ready, my eyes sharp. My patience pays off. With four minutes left in the third, I squeak in the game-winning goal, a redirect off a long shot from Daniel at the point. We win Homecoming, 2–1.

  After the handshake line, I skate directly up to Coach. “Did I deliver?”

  He can’t wipe the smile off his face. Winning Winter Homecoming against Calumet, in front of a bunch of alums and parents and administrators. We both know he’s got a lot of backslapping and handshaking in his near future.

  “You got your center spot” is all he says.

  * * *

  My broom closet is definitely a Superman phone booth today. I enter it a victorious hockey player but when I leave I’ll be a girl on a first date with a gorgeous swimmer boy. My tummy flips happily. I change like my room is on fire, haphazardly tossing gear into my bag.

  I lock up my closet while reviewing clothing options. Purple sleeveless top vs. off-white lace T-shirt. It’ll be humid in the natatorium — will the lace get scratchy? Is lace too much for a swim meet? The purple is a good color for me, but it doesn’t work quite as well with my denim skirt. I miss Brie terribly in this moment. I’ll text her my options when I get home. She’ll choose neither, of course, and berate me for not attending the dance.

  My sticks wrench from my hand.

  “Team meeting,” Daniel says. “Follow us.” Standing behind him in the hallway are Vaughn, Breaker and Carson, the assistant captain and a junior like me. I played with Carson from age five through thirteen, but he hasn’t spoken a word to me since I joined the team. He won’t look at me now.

  My oh-shit-o-meter flashes red. “Coach didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Captain’s orders.”

  “I have a thing —”

  “It’ll be short.”

  Breaker takes my bag off my shoulder and Daniel carries my sticks. These are no gentlemen; my gear has been taken hostage. Against all survival instincts, I follow them, skirting the rink. My fingers curl around my phone in my pocket. But there’s no one to call.

  Daniel leads us around the Zamboni machine to the back of the garage. I’ve never been back here before — I’m sure it’s strictly off-limits to the public. It’s a messy dumping ground for dulled resurfacing blades and extra sections of boards. Scratched and cracked panes of plexiglass lean against the concrete walls. It smells like grease and gas and it’s so cold that I can see my breath. The rink compressors hum loudly.

  Breaker drops my bag on the concrete floor. In an icy puddle. Daniel holds my sticks, leaning on the butt ends. The rest of the team is MIA.

  Shit.

  “Team tradition, Manning. You took Vaughn’s spot. You owe him something in return.”

  “Yeah, OK. I’ll bake you cookies, Vaughn. That make you feel better?” I try to keep my voice light, but I’m scouting the exits. From the heavy diesel smell permeating the air and the deafening vibrations, I can tell the rink manager is still edging the ice. There’s no one to accidentally walk in on us back here. I finally let go of my phone and hold my hands lightly at my sides. Ready to … what? Take on four guys, all much larger than me?

  “Cookies,” Daniel snorts. “Cute, Manning. Vaughn gets one punch.”

  “You punch your teammates for changing positions?”

  A sadistic grin twists Vaughn’s heavily blemished complexion. “If you can’t take a hit, offer me an alternative.” He rocks his pelvis back and forth. My stomach tightens and nausea creeps up my throat.

  The other guys cackle. “If she’s any good, she can have my spot, too,” Breaker says.

  My muscles are contracted, ready to fight. I will not go down easily. The obvious available weapon would be my sticks, but Daniel’s still leaning on them. I scan the walls. Those long steel blades would do damage but they’re so heavy. If I could heave one at them, maybe i
t would distract them long enough. I’ve only got to make it a few yards and then I’ll be in screaming distance of the rink.

  “A punch,” Daniel’s firm voice interrupts. “You want a spot on this team, you play by our rules.”

  “You’re fucking crazy.”

  “Then you’re off the team.”

  “Does Coach know about this?”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

  I mentally reason whether I’ve scored enough points, won enough games, to persuade Coach to keep me over whatever story Daniel will concoct.

  That’s some fucking insane “reasoning.”

  “Dude, I got dinner reservations with my date,” Carson says. “Can we wrap this up?”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Breaker says. He comes at me and I stumble backward, bumping into a workbench. Breaker grabs my right wrist just as I pull it back into a fist. Carson grabs my left and they drag me forward. I struggle for everything I’m worth, trying to twist my arms free, digging my heels into the floor.

  Daniel throws my sticks down and grips my jaw. “Take it like a fucking man,” he snarls, shoving my face away. “Drop her hands. If she runs, she’s done.”

  Breaker and Carson let go but don’t move away.

  “Fine,” I say. I hold my arms out, leaving my midsection vulnerable. “Take your punch. Be a fucking man yourself.”

  “No problem,” Vaughn says.

  “Not on the face,” Daniel instructs.

  Vaughn stares me down, pounding his fist into his palm. I will myself not to flinch. Absorb, like a hit on the ice. Above all, do not cry in front of them.

  It is sudden. I barely see it coming, but I sure as hell feel it. A momentary curtain of darkness falls over my eyes, replaced with stars. I gasp for breath. Cold concrete on my knees lets me know I’ve hit the ground. I stay down.

  But I survived.

  There’s laughing above me.

  “And now I’m ready for some dinner,” Carson says.

  “Beer first,” Vaughn says. “I need me a beer first.”

  “More like six beers.”

  “Twelve.”

  Wait it out, I tell myself. Breathe through the pain and they’ll go away.

  Footsteps pass by my head. I’m seconds from freedom when pain erupts in my side again. And again. And again. I curl and swing my arms at the retreating boot but my kicker slips away. Running footsteps fade through the garage.

  My side screams and I press my hands to it, squeezing against the pain. I force my head up to check my surroundings. I’m alone. They’re gone. I crumple, curling inward, pressing my forehead to the cold concrete floor. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t. This is sick and wrong. Illegal.

  The pain morphs from sharp stabs to dull throbbing, my muscles cranked tight. I prod the area. The punch knocked the wind out of me, but it’s the kicks that are going to hurt for a long time. I don’t know how to tell if I’m really hurt, but people get punched every day and are just fine, right?

  It’s not my side that’s nauseating me.

  I lurch to my feet and hug the dusty wall for support. My biology teacher last year told us that starry vision and head rushes are your body’s way of telling you it needs oxygen. He also told us that fainting is the body’s way of telling you it wants you to lie down. I can already tell my body’s going to win this argument.

  I ease myself back down to the hard floor and breathe deeply, inhaling fully even though my abdomen screams with each breath. Mr. Blakely was right. The stars recede. My body decides to let me stay conscious. I’m allowed to stand. Unable to lift my bag, I drag it through the wet garage. Through the now-empty lobby. I stumble out the door and through the parking lot to my borrowed ride.

  It’s when I slump onto the front seat that the tears start. The silent, hot, fast kind. I don’t try to stop them. I don’t drive. I don’t think about what happened. Staying conscious and breathing through the pain are all I can manage right now.

  Eventually, my body and mind settle on numbness. My eyes get the message and dry up. My consciousness stops the astronomy project. I turn the car on and drive home. Sneak up the stairs, letting the sounds of the TV cover my steps. Drop my clothes on the bathroom floor and stand under a hot shower, shielding my new bluish-purple bruise with my hands to keep the water from pelting against the tender skin.

  Lace shirt. Definitely the lace shirt. With straightened hair; curls will flop in the humidity. I’m still Superman emerging from the phone booth, even if I’m crawling instead of flying.

  No … Superwoman.

  15

  Jack bounds over to me as soon as I arrive in the pool area. He’s wearing blue warm-up pants and a long parka that says Club Wolverine U.P. across the back.

  He smiles wide as he approaches. “Heard you won Homecoming.”

  The bitter taste of blood creeps up the back of my throat. “We did.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  His smile wavers and my chin quivers. I clench my jaw and try to curve my lips up. It’s my first official date with Jack Ray. We’re finally on our first official date and I can no longer muster up the capital letters. “I’m just a little beat up, that’s all. Rough game.”

  “But you survived.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, since this is Homecoming.” He brings his hand out from behind his back. He’s holding a clear plastic box. “I got you a corsage.”

  My smile finally turns genuine. “You did!”

  He opens the box and pulls out a delicate weaving of pink and white flowers.

  I gasp. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

  He slides it over my wrist. I stare at the contrast of fragile flowers over my short nails and callused palms. I have one knuckle that tore open sometime during the game and a cracked thumbnail. “After the day I had, it’s nice to feel like a girl.”

  He leans in and kisses me slowly. Now it’s even nicer to feel like a girl.

  A sharp whistle echoes off the walls and the announcer calls a race. Jack pulls back and glances at a digital scoreboard with names and numbers I don’t understand.

  “Do you have to go to that?” I ask.

  “Nope. We have three heats to talk.” He takes my hand and leads me halfway up the bleachers.

  “I usually get at least five heats for a first date,” I say, amazed at how normal my voice sounds. We sit and he keeps my hand, the one with the corsage.

  “Tell me about your game.”

  I hesitate. I won’t talk about Fight Club, of course. First rule of Owl River Hockey. “Final score was 2–1. Good game, shots pretty even. Avery stood on his head.” In fact, the whole team played well, but it’s easiest to talk up Avery’s performance.

  He nods. “I saw the score online. Why don’t you tell me about the parts that sucked?”

  I sigh.

  “I’ve never seen you so bummed after hockey. Especially a win.”

  “It’s the team. They hate me.” I inhale slow and long, to keep my voice from cracking and my rib cage from splitting. Even after my marathon sobfest in the car, I’m still teetering on the brink of another meltdown. I know that if even one tear slips, the whole truth is coming out. Jack is the kind of guy who would call in the armed guard, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Right now, I want to breathe and relax in this warm, humid place, with normal, non-abusive sports happening around me and a corsage on my wrist.

  Jack squeezes my hand. “So they’re insecure because the one girl on their team is carrying them.”

  “I doubt they’d like me if I was riding the bench either.”

  “You get that this is all their problem and not yours, right? You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  My side is bright hot, so much pain that it’s almost numb. No, this is not all their problem. They’ve definitely broug
ht me into the picture a bit.

  “If I was a guy, even a freshman, they’d be all proud of me. Is this normal for guys? If a girl hopped in the water right now, swimming against you, would you be pissed off if she beat you?”

  “Absolutely. But I’d be pissed off if anyone beat me.” He rubs his thumb against my palm, taking the edge off my tension. Jack’s better than Advil.

  “What would you do about it? How do you treat the swimmers that beat you?” I suddenly think of the wall of pennants. “Assuming there are any, that is.”

  He chuckles. “There are plenty. I like it, actually. It’s good to know that somewhere out there — maybe at this meet, maybe not, but somewhere — there’s someone faster than me. It gives me something to push for when I’m training. Swimming laps back and forth — it’s not like someone’s going to knock you off your feet. It’s the same thing over and over again. You have to push yourself forward. You have to have a reason to make every stroke count.”

  “You are a true athlete,” I say. “You do it for the right reasons, you do it the right way. It’s admirable. I wish I could be more like that.”

  “You are,” he says. “It’s what I like about you. You’re different from the rest of your team. You skate like you mean it. I can see you pushing yourself. You never sit back and slack.”

  “I can’t afford to. Aw, who am I kidding. I don’t like to. And I finally have opponents who really challenge me, and I don’t have a team to sit back and rely on. It gives me something to work for —” I stop suddenly.

  I’m talking in the present tense.

  Less than two hours ago, I lay on the floor of the rink garage telling myself that no one would put up with the literal abuse I was receiving from my team. And now I’m talking like I’ll be back at practice on Monday.