Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  I can’t go back. That’s insane. I should tell Jack that I’m done.

  But I don’t.

  * * *

  Possible internal bleeding aside, it’s a pretty great first date. Jack makes the finals in all three of his races, although those won’t happen until tomorrow morning. I was kind of freaked out about seeing the guy I’m dating in a Speedo, but it turns out he wears these legging things, so it wasn’t creepy at all. Not that Jack’s body is creepy. I just don’t need too much information about certain parts of it on our first date. Although I was quite happy that there was no shirt component to his racing uniform because, let’s just say, damn.

  After the meet, we go to dinner at a brewpub near campus. Jack’s dark hair is still damp, and even though he’s back in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, I can now picture the well-defined muscles underneath that shirt. He holds my hand almost constantly, to the point where neither of us knows how to eat our burgers. Finally, I get up and slide into the booth next to him, pulling my plate across the table. He looks at me questioningly.

  “If I don’t have use of both hands, I’m going to end up with melted cheese and tomato all over my lap,” I explain. “So I’ll trade you. My hand back for” — I scooch closer, until our shoulders bump — “a shoulder.”

  “Shoulder’s good. But maybe not quite equal to a hand. Throw in a knee” — he bumps mine with his — “and I’m in.”

  “Deal.” We press close enough that our shoulders and knees — our entire thighs — touch.

  “I like real dates,” he says. “Better than lunch in the cafeteria. I mean, I like lunch. But I like shoulders and knees better.”

  “And no one dumping coffee on me.”

  He frowns. “How accidental are we thinking that was? I mean, after what you told me about your team tonight?”

  I shrug. We’re so close that my shrug pushes his shoulder up as well. “It’s ancient history, either way. And he’s not on the team.”

  “If that guy had dropped hot coffee down your back when you were on the girls’ team, what would have happened?”

  “Brie would have ripped his, um, manhood off. Jordan would have stuffed it down his throat. Kendall would have tipped off every girl in school so he’d never get a date again. Laura would have talked all of his teachers into extra homework.”

  “I feel like I should have done something. I feel like the rest of your team should have done something.”

  I’m sure they did. Bought him a replacement coffee. I shrug it off. “It’s not worth it.”

  “But it’s not OK. I wanted to help you.”

  “You did. You gave me dry clothes.”

  He drops his crumpled napkin onto one of his plates — he ate two orders by himself. “Will you tell me if anything like that happens again?”

  My side throbs as I add guilt to my pain. “Look, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. And you are helping. You always manage to do the right thing and say the right thing.”

  He leans in and softly presses his lips to mine. “Like this?”

  “See? Exact right thing.”

  * * *

  I wake up gasping for air. My entire midsection is frozen solid. I can’t take a deep breath. I can’t roll over in bed. I can’t sit up.

  Oh, my God, it was internal bleeding and now I’m paralyzed. I pull up the side of my pajama top and check my torso. A deep purple bruise two pucks across greets me. My toes curl in agony. But at least that means I’m not paralyzed. I’m just really freaking sore.

  With much grimacing, I’m able to push to my opposite side, bend my knees and, keeping my torso straight, push myself to sitting.

  How the hell am I supposed to skate at practice tomorrow? How am I supposed to coach today?

  Keeping my core still, I stretch my fingers until I can reach my phone. In selfie mode I’m finally able to get a good look at the whole bruise. I snap a few pics and type a text to Coach Norman. Got a helluva bruise from the game. Lower ribs/abdomen. What do I do?

  But I hesitate to push Send. The guy has been around hockey his whole life. He’s seen a few bruises. He’s definitely going to call bullshit.

  Also, is it sexting if you send a picture of your bare torso to your hot, older coach? I decide to send the text without the pictures.

  My phone pings right away. He’s probably getting ready to leave for our game. Do you need an X-ray?

  Probably. But that would require an explanation to my parents, who are not going to buy the story that I fell on someone’s boot. Repeatedly. No, just bruised.

  Since you’re u-21, my normal prescription won’t work. Ice, hot showers, light stretches, ibuprofen. Wrap with an Ace. Do you need a break today?

  I don’t want to let Trent and Megan down. Or Coach Norman. And, of course, there would be Mom questions. Dude, what do I look like — a 13-year-old boy? I’ll be there.

  The hot shower is geographically closer than the freezer, so I’ll start with that. I creak to the bathroom like an old lady. Oh, yes, a hot shower does help. I’m at least able to pretend I’m walking normally when I finally make it down the stairs.

  Every hockey family has a comprehensive medicine cabinet. Ours is in the laundry room. I can’t bend down to pull the crate from the lower shelf, so I hook a toe through the plastic lattice and drag it forward until an unraveled Ace wrap comes into view. I clench it between my toes and lift until I can reach it. Mom’s slippered footsteps shuffle over the kitchen linoleum, so to be safe I duck into the mudroom before lifting my shirt. It’s not a pretty job, but I manage to wrap the Ace around my lower ribs. It helps immediately.

  I straighten my spine, practice a normal gait and brave the kitchen.

  “How was the dance last night?” Mom asks. The coffee carafe in her hand is half-empty, which is the only reason she’s this chatty. My family doesn’t talk until at least thirty minutes after the coffeemaker beeps in the morning.

  “Didn’t go.” I pour the nearest box of cereal into a bowl.

  “I thought that’s why you borrowed my car last night.” Her tone is already accusatory, like I was out delivering drugs when I was supposed to be having a yearbook-worthy high school experience.

  “I went to my date’s swim meet instead.”

  “Oh.” It takes a moment and a few more sips of coffee until it sinks in. “Wait. They cut the boys’ swim team. Are you dating … did you go to a girl’s meet?”

  As much as I’m enjoying her reaction to that, I clarify. “He — Jack — swims for a regional team.”

  “But he goes to your school.”

  “Yes.” If it was such a big deal to vet my date, don’t you think she’d have done it before the actual date? “He’s a senior.”

  “He missed his senior Homecoming for a swim meet?”

  “Of course. Why would he miss an important meet for a dance?”

  And therein lies the essential difference between my mother and me.

  Trent saves me by lugging his hockey bag through the kitchen, overpowering the coffee smell with stale sweat. “Ready, Mich?”

  I lift my bowl and chug the remaining milk. Put my palms on the table to push myself up to standing. Bowl in the dishwasher. Creak back up to standing position. Pocket the bottle of ibuprofen Mom keeps next to the coffee maker.

  “Ready.”

  * * *

  “Here she is!” Megan says, coming at me with two little girls in her wake. “This is Coach Mich, leading scorer for Owl River High School.”

  “Hi.” I lift a hand in a wave, which is lame but I’m totally caught off guard.

  “These are my cousins. They really wanted to meet you,” Megan says. “This is Lindsey — she plays squirts. And Betsey is in her first year of mites.”

  They look like mini-Megans, with blond curls and pink cheeks. And tutus. You gotta love a hockey girl in a sparkly p
ink tutu. I shake their hands solemnly. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “Will you sign my puck?” Lindsey asks. She hands me a plain black puck and a purple glitter pen with silver feathers sprouting out the top.

  “I’ll try,” I say, shaking the pen and trying to get ink to stick to the black rubber. It’s sloppy, but it’ll do. I hand it back to her.

  “I drew this for you,” Betsey says. She hands me a picture of a girl with black skates and a green-and-gold jersey with the number 16 on her chest. I’m also wearing a gold tutu and a gold bow in my hair. No helmet, which is kind of dangerous in the kind of hockey I play. Artistic license, I suppose.

  “ ‘Good luk, Michigan,’ ” I read. “ ‘Love, Elizabeth Abigail Singer.’ Thank you, Betsey, that’s beautiful. Should I hang it in my room or keep it in my bag for luck?”

  “You should put it in your bedroom. On your closet door or your dresser so when you get dressed for hockey, you’ll see it and remember to have good luck.”

  “That makes sense. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  “OK, girls,” Megan says. “I have to finish getting dressed, so I’m taking you back to Aunt Nancy now. Bye, Coach Michigan!”

  “Bye, Coach Michigan,” they echo. I wave goodbye.

  They stay with me, though. All through Trent’s game, I see them across the ice, cheering for Megan. In the lobby, when I leave, they’re playing floor hockey with a tennis ball and bright pink hockey sticks. Nostalgia hits hard. Back before pink gear became more common, when Kendall followed her older brothers and joined our team, she pined for gear that matched her color scheme at the time — sparkles, sparkles and more sparkles. Come to think of it, Kendall hasn’t changed much in the last seven years. Anyway, four glue sticks and three tubs of glitter later, we had her sparkling under the dim lighting of the rink like a disco ball. She shed glitter all over the ice for the next three months, leaving a fairy trail wherever she skated.

  I lean against Mom’s car while I wait for Trent, the world’s slowest showerer. Now that I’m not standing on the bench, in public, my core muscles have called it quits. Ibuprofen’s wearing off. But it’s nice to stand outside by myself when I’m not afraid of getting jumped. In fact, it’s nice to be at the rink without being afraid of getting jumped, period.

  What will happen when Megan gets to high school and she still wants to play hockey? Will the boys turn on her, punch her in the garage, insinuate that she should give them sexual favors for taking their spots? What about Lindsey and Betsey — will there still be no girls’ team for them when they get to high school? I want to punch the guys who would consider threatening those girls.

  If I’m blazing a trail for them, I’m doing a poor job of it. Some role model, relying on a strict regimen of ice packs and hot showers just to be able to walk. Allowing my team to physically abuse me because I don’t know how to get myself out of these situations.

  If I blow the whistle on them, I’ll be gone. Done with hockey. And then what kind of trailblazer will I be? Generations of girls could skip tryouts because the last girl screwed it up. If I keep my mouth shut and put up with it, then I’m setting a dangerous standard for the girls yet to come.

  For a girl on a scoring streak, I’m sure stuck in a no-win situation.

  16

  It’s a rare day at Owl River H.S. The moon aligns just right with a couple of planets, and almost my entire girls’ team ends up at the same table at lunch. Jack takes the hint, planting a light kiss on my cheek before going to sit with the soccer team. I swear that guy knows everyone at school.

  I sit next to Kendall, who squeals and holds out her arms to hug me. Yep, still sparkly, with glittery nail polish and a rhinestone bracelet on each wrist. I maneuver carefully into her familiar hug, slumping to make sure she doesn’t squeeze my lower ribs.

  Homecoming is, of course, the topic of the day. I checked out everyone’s pictures online last night but now I get all the stories that weren’t fit to post on Insta accounts that parents can access.

  “Yes, yes,” Jordan says, bowing proudly. “I am the puker of this year’s Homecoming.”

  “Ew. That is not a title I am jealous of,” Kendall says.

  “Oh, but you’re proud of the title ‘homewrecker’?”

  “They had a fight!” she says. “Everyone knows we’ve always had chemistry. It was only logical that when Rory finally dumped him, Vaughn would seek solace with his very first girlfriend.”

  I choke on my quesadilla. “Ew, what? Vaughn? Vaughn Gaines?”

  “Yes, remember? We went out in sixth grade.”

  “That counted?” It was like a week. And sixth grade. The only chemistry involved was grape-flavored lip gloss plus Mentos.

  “Well, it counts now. I can’t believe how much I missed him. He always was the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated.”

  The ghost of Vaughn’s fist dents my abdominal cavity. I set my quesadilla down. “Kendall, are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “What, are you on Rory’s side all of a sudden?”

  “No! I’m on yours, of course. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She tilts her head and sets her hand on my arm. “Sweetie. I won’t. But thanks for worrying about me.”

  I meant actually hurt. A guy who will punch a teammate won’t think twice about punching his girlfriend. And what was that crack about twelve beers the other night? Was he serious?

  “Please just be careful,” I say.

  “Why weren’t you at the hockey party after Homecoming?” Kendall asks. “I was sure you’d be celebrating with the team.”

  “Aren’t you required to be there?” Delia adds.

  I’m not sure if I’m proud or ashamed to admit that my team doesn’t invite me to their parties. Since ice was invented, there have been rumors about what goes on at the hockey team’s parties, and frankly I’m relieved that Coach’s Rules for The Girl have kept me off the invite list. One beating was plenty the other night. Of course, this being Homecoming, with dates and all, it was probably pretty tame. Well, other than puking and homewrecking.

  But I can give the girls what they really want. “I had better things to do.”

  The entire table leans forward, fixing me with fourteen pairs of curious eyes.

  Kendall breathes, “Please say Jack Ray.”

  I duck my head to study the speckled white plastic table and grin like crazy. “I went to his meet on Saturday, and he brought me a corsage. Then we had dinner at The Library after the meet.”

  “So it’s true?” Cherrie practically shrieks. “You’re dating Hot Speedo Boy?!”

  Laura thumps her on the shoulder. “If you guys would spend more time in this town, you’d be up on the gossip.”

  “We’re gossip?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Because you have accomplished what every straight girl in this school has been trying to do for years.”

  “Jack’s gone out with other girls.”

  “Not many.”

  I can’t help it — my eyes search out Jack two tables away. He’s halfway through a stack of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, a tall carton of milk on the table in front of him. He’s even cute with a milk mustache.

  Breaker and Daniel pass through my line of sight and I instinctively curl inward, protecting my midsection. Daniel catches me looking and follows my gaze to Jack. That smirk I’ve come to hate jumps to Daniel’s face. He stumbles and his arms flail, red Gatorade sloshing out of its bottle. Daniel steadies himself by clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. His bottle of Gatorade, high in the air over Jack’s head to counterbalance, tips dangerously but miraculously doesn’t spill. Jack is jostled forward into the table, and my breath catches as he turns around. But there’s only some good-natured laughing between the two. Jack seems to be waving Daniel off with a “no worries.”

  I exhale into a growl. That stumble was to
tally fake. Daniel makes eye contact with me on his way out of the caf, confirming my suspicion with an evil grin.

  My stomach turns me away from my lunch. Daniel wouldn’t do anything, would he?

  Everyone loves Jack. And Jack’s a guy. He can take care of himself.

  Geez, Mich, sexist much?

  My bruise throbs in response.

  “I gotta say” — Jordan taps my wrist with her Twizzler — “I was worried about you when we lost the team and Brie left town. But” — she gestures from my head to my feet — “look at you. Leading scorer on the boys’ team. Dating Jack Ray. And boys’ hockey is definitely doing something for you.” She squeezes my bicep.

  “You were worried about me?” I ask, stiffening.

  “Well, yeah. I know how important the team was to you.”

  “I’ve seen you, like, twice in the last month.” Awkward silence slithers down the table. “I’ve barely seen any of you.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Kendall says pointedly.

  “You guys didn’t even come to my game last weekend.”

  “We were getting ready for the dance!”

  “And it’s not like you’ve come to any of our games,” Cherrie says. “None of you have.”

  “No offense, but I ain’t driving to Bumfuck to watch you guys play,” Jordan says.

  “Well, I ‘ain’t’ going to Sunday beer league to watch your games either,” Di counters.

  Cherrie gives me a pleading look. But I lost that A two months ago.

  “OK, OK,” Emma says. “We’ve all been busy with new things. We’re still friends.” Even though, I note, she’s been hunched over her phone with Delia and Laura leaning over her shoulders all lunch period. And the Silver Lake girls are clumped together at the other end of the table.

  And Brie is MIA. But we’re all “still friends.” Like what you tell a lame boyfriend when you break up with him.

  Loud laughter erupts behind me. I duck my head and hunch my shoulders, steeling myself for the hit, for the hot drip of coffee or the sudden shock of ice cubes down my shirt.