Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  “Dude, what was that about?” Jordan asks me.

  The laughter fades as a trio of boys passes by without incident. I sit up straight and run a shaky hand through my hair. “Nothing.”

  “OK, swimmers, let’s go ice our shoulders,” Delia says. “I need my medley relay in top condition for next weekend.” Emma and Laura wave and follow her.

  “But we’re still friends,” Jordan mimics to their quickly retreating backs.

  Teammates. Friends. I used to think it was all the same thing. The guys killed that theory quick. The girls are burying the body.

  * * *

  When Coach cancels off-ice conditioning before practice and instructs us to sit in the bleachers, my lungs constrict. I sit on my shaking hands, squishing them onto the cold plastic seat until they’re too numb to tremble. I can feel Daniel’s glare on my back, but he can’t think I’m dumb enough to tell anyone, right? My brain scans through the day. Could anyone have caught me slumping at my desk or popping ibuprofen between classes?

  But when Coach stands up in front of us — really, in front of me, as I have the entire first bleacher row all to myself — he doesn’t look pissed. He’s bouncing on his toes and grinning from ear to ear.

  “Boys,” he says, looking over me to the rest of the team, “I got a call from the Michigan High School Athletic Association this morning. Our team is ranked second in the division, which means we have been invited to play in the University Showcase this weekend.”

  He pauses to allow celebration, and whoops erupt behind me. The Showcase is a big deal up here in the U.P., where we don’t have a lot of sports teams to get excited about. It takes place mid-season at the U, on their big, gorgeous sheet of ice, in front of four thousand fans. The top four high school teams play a twenty-minute period against each other, so three mini-games. Then they get introduced on the ice before the U game and everyone stays to cheer on the Division I college team.

  Behind me, the guys are practically peeing their pants.

  “Scouts!” Sanders shrieks. “Are there going to be college scouts there?”

  “Of course.” Coach says it calmly, but I’m guessing his pelvic floor muscles are working overtime as well. “That’s part of the whole reason to have a Showcase. There will be coaches there from junior programs, Division III teams, even DI. Your future is on the line, men.”

  I’m psyched about the experience, but let’s be honest. I’m not going to get picked up by a guys’ team for college and there won’t be any scouts from women’s teams there. There’s no reason for them to be at a guys’ Showcase. Still, we get to skate on that big U ice, in front of a ton of fans. And we’ll get to watch the U game afterward.

  The cheers behind me have disintegrated into mumbles. I peek over my shoulder at the hostile-looking horde behind me. My bruise prickles.

  “What about playing time, Coach?” asks Carson. He speaks past me, but his cheeks redden, as if he knows what an ass he is. When we were in peewees, Carson and I played floor hockey in the lobby every night waiting for our parents to pick us up. With a wadded-up ball of hockey tape — blue, because Carson wore blue on his shin pads. I always made him be goalie.

  Two nights ago, he held my arms down while Vaughn punched me.

  “What about playing time?” Coach asks.

  “Well, there are some guys here that already know where they’re going to school next year. And others” — his eyes shoot to the floor, unable to look at me — “that don’t have a chance of making a college team.”

  “I’m going to put the best team I can out on that ice,” Coach says. “This is big for us, boys. Lots of eyes watching. If we come out of this well, it won’t go unnoticed.”

  Daniel takes a couple of nudges from the guys before he stands up. “OK. I’m the captain. I’ll say it. Manning’s taking a spot that could go to a guy who needs to get seen.”

  Coach frowns and rocks on his heels. “You come out of this thing the bottom-ranked team, that doesn’t look so good. For any of us,” he says. “Manning makes this team look better than it is.”

  I’m feeling a little love for Coach for actually sticking up for me. Although it sounds like he doesn’t have much choice. I’m sure the administration is putting pressure on him to win.

  “However,” he says, looking straight past me. “I’ll make you boys a deal. I’m planning on putting my best centers on the ice on Saturday. You show up this week at practice, you look good, and maybe one of you will win Manning’s spot.”

  Oh, how nice. And will I get to punch that bastard in the gut?

  17

  I may not have a scholarship or roster spot on the line, but I want to play on that big ice at the U. I want my dad and my brother to see me play in front of a huge crowd. And, as much as I’d like the opportunity to punch someone on this roster, I’d really like to maintain my status as leading scorer.

  So I’ll step it up this week. I’ve been playing well, so that’s a tough concept. But there’s always something more you can do. My slapshot is inconsistent. I can work on that. I’m still tentative going into the boards, wondering if I need to brace for a hit. So I’ll work on keeping my feet moving and reaching for the puck instead of worrying about the check. I think, in the last week, I’ve proven I can take a hit.

  On Tuesday, Coach hands out a packet to each player before practice — our access pass for this weekend. Plus we each get four tickets for our families, both for the Showcase and the U game after. It’s like injecting Red Bull into our veins. I swear, even our slowest skater could get drafted off that practice. The rink manager takes a hint and lets Coach have an extra twenty minutes at the end of practice, and no one complains or slows a stride.

  This eats into homework time, which will send Mom’s blood pressure up a few ticks. But I don’t care. I’ve already decided French and world history will take a hit this week so I can get some extra sleep. I need to be well rested.

  School has turned the Showcase into a popularity contest, of course. All students get free entry to the Showcase, but each player gets only four extra tickets to the U game after. Apparently, it is the thing to do this weekend and tickets are in high demand.

  I’m jittery waiting for Jack before school on Wednesday and it’s only partly due to the extra ticket in my jacket pocket. My back is pressed against the lockers so no one can sneak up on me. I’ve got the nearest restroom on my radar so I can sprint toward it if I need a safe haven. I’ve stashed extra clothes in my locker.

  I wonder if I should add a first-aid kit.

  Jack meets me at my locker, now our regular routine, and kisses me hello. I can still taste his morning toothpaste and smell the chlorine from his morning swim. Now I don’t mind being pressed up against my locker.

  “So,” I say. I hold up my extra ticket. The other three went to Dad, Mom and Trent, of course. “But I have to warn you, you’d be sitting with my family.” The thought brings me nearly to hyperventilation. But there’s no one else I’d rather have there.

  “I thought you’d never ask!” he says.

  “If it weren’t for the interrogation my mom will spring on you, I would have asked yesterday. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Of course! This is huge!” He takes the ticket and slips it into his backpack before setting his hands on my waist. “You’re still holding strong to your spot, right? ’Cause I don’t want to show up with number sixteen shaved into the back of my head unless —”

  I swat his chest but then pull back. “Wait. You wouldn’t, right?”

  He sighs. “Sadly, no head shaving until taper.”

  “This is a sadly? Really?”

  “Bee-otch!” The familiar screech stops me as I’m leaning toward Jack’s smiling lips.

  Between stressing over whatever my mom will do/say to Jack, stressing over the inevitable “I get paid to carry a gun,
son” convo with State Trooper Dad, stressing over keeping my spot this week and the small amount of attention I’ve given my classwork … Yeah, there’s a chance I forgot to check in with my friends.

  I turn around and there she is: latte in hand (nonfat, sugar-free vanilla), makeup and hair in her took-me-an-hour-to-achieve-a-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-gorgeous look. Brie scans the school hallway with her nose turned up, as if public school is contagious. “I can’t believe I had to come all the way to your school to track you down.”

  “Brie, oh, my gosh!” I let her hug me, but then I push her back. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “Surprise!” She eyes up Jack. “And speaking of surprises. Jack Ray with his arms around my best friend. My, my.”

  If she texted more often than to brag about the hotties at her school, she’d know this. But she’s here now, and we can finally get back to normal. I’m already giddy from Brie’s infectious energy and the prospect of girl time. “I’m so glad you’re back! But, seriously, what are you doing here?”

  “Winter break, duh. I’m home through the weekend and then it’s the annual winter cruise with my grandparents.” She smirks at Jack. “Maldives, this year.”

  He shrugs, unimpressed. I love him.

  “Thanks for telling me!” I scold Brie. But then I hug her again. I used to hug my teammates, many times each day, and suddenly I feel starved for it. It seems forever since anyone but Jack has hugged me. And while he’s an excellent stand-in, it’s not the same as affection from my girls.

  “So what are the chances you can blow off class and get coffee?” Brie toasts me with her to-go cup, as if she needs to be further caffeinated.

  “Zero.” I check the clock. About five minutes till first period. “I’m under a microscope, I can’t ditch. Come do lunch with us.” I gesture at Jack, who seems to be fading back into the hallway.

  “Spa day with my mom. I cannot get on a cruise with this pedi.” She wiggles her foot at me, although I’m sure there are no calluses under those Tory Burch boots. “How about dinner?”

  “Practice and coaching. Homework. Bed.”

  “Geez, girl, I didn’t come all the way up to Nowhere, Michigan, to hang with my parents! What’s your weekend like?”

  “We made the University Showcase,” I say, grinning. “So come to the game, OK?”

  “Oh, yes! Definitely! Can you get me a ticket for the U game, too?”

  “I’m out. But I’ll ask around.”

  She pouts. “You suck.”

  “Um, hello, it’s not like I knew you were going to be in town.”

  “Like it matters. Apparently I’m never going to see you while I’m here.”

  “She can have my ticket,” Jack says, holding it out toward Brie. My heart flinches. “I’d love to go, Mich, but if this is your only chance to spend time with Brie while she’s in town, then she should sit with you guys.”

  “Good man.” Brie snatches the ticket from his hand.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. Only a moment ago I was stressing about Jack sitting with my family. Now I’m bummed that he won’t get the chance to undergo their trial by fire.

  “I’ll still come to the Showcase,” he says. “Wouldn’t miss it. And I’m sure I can get another ticket to the U game.”

  The bell buzzes and I frown in the direction of world history.

  “Walk you to class?” Brie says, slipping her arm through mine. “Then I’m off to get a massage and pretty nails while you poor schmucks learn boring crap all day.”

  * * *

  Practice is fast and furious. Between pre-Showcase adrenaline and having Brie back, I’m flying high. So is the rest of the team — even Coach is practically exuberant. I doubt Brie’s return has anything to do with them, though.

  Every time I’m forced to step up my game, I shock myself by doing it. Today’s practice is yet another step up, another sprint up the stadium stairs. Sure, I’m breathing hard and my legs are numb, but I get to the top. It’s finally clear how hard I’ve been working. I’ve upped my game and I’m in great shape. I can hate my teammates all I want, but they’ve made me a better hockey player.

  But none of them is taking my spot. I want it. God, I want it.

  Coach ends Thursday practice with a scrimmage, which is smart. Everyone’s got a ton of nervous energy and it needs to be directed into actual playing.

  I line up against Vaughn. I’ve already faced off against him once today and I won it. Coach Peters drops the puck and Vaughn ties up, smashing his stick across my chest.

  Focus. Puck.

  As the wingers barrel down on us, I kick the puck back to my D. I let Vaughn continue to tie me up so my D gets an extra second to start the breakout. Vaughn takes the opportunity to shove against my chest pads and his top hand flies up into an uppercut.

  He mostly hits my chin protector but the butt end of his stick scratches the soft spot under my jaw. Guess he’s still pissed about that center thing. “Just for that,” I grunt, “I’m telling Kendall to hold out on you this weekend.”

  He uppercuts again.

  “Get a move on, Gaines!” Coach barks.

  I cough, my windpipe not happy with this match-up. But Vaughn backs off.

  My D got too excited on the breakout and iced the puck, so we’re back for another face-off. I stand at the circle, waiting for Vaughn to line up. He strides back to Daniel at left D and they have a few hushed words. Both look over at me. Vaughn nods and comes back to the face-off dot.

  Subtle, guys. So Vaughn’s planning to win the puck back to Daniel, who’s probably going for the shot on net, which means Vaughn’s either planning to tie me up — as usual — or he’s planning to sprint to the net for the rebound.

  But Vaughn will have to win the face-off. No chance in hell, Gaines.

  My knees are bent low, my eyes on the puck in the assistant coach’s hand. My weight is forward on my toes, ready to push myself into the puck’s space the second it leaves Peters’s grip. In slow motion, his clutched hand begins its forward motion and I make my move.

  It was option one. Vaughn blocks my forward progress, but as usual he’s so intent on the body that he’s too slow to get to the puck. I duck around him, but I can’t shake Vaughn’s grip from my jersey. He forces me back toward the boards, where my D is fumbling with the puck.

  “What the hell?” I grunt, trying to push around him toward the net. It would be great if Peters would call this hold.

  Vaughn gives me an eerie grin. “Get out of this one,” he says, smirking.

  WHAM.

  I’m out.

  18

  “Jesus Effing Christ, Daniel! What the hell were you thinking?” Avery’s voice comes from directly over me.

  My eyes won’t open, but I know exactly where I am. The cool, fresh scent of the ice is close to my nose. Besides, I’m always on the ice these days, so it’s a safe guess.

  “Michigan! Can you hear me?” That’s Coach.

  “Yes,” I say, but it comes out “blem.”

  “Should I call 911?” asks Peters.

  “I think she’s waking up,” Coach says, tapping my helmet. “Michigan! Can you open your eyes? Can you sit up?”

  “Don’t move her,” Avery says.

  “But we still have fifteen minutes of practice left,” Coach says.

  “With a hit like that, she could have a spinal injury,” Avery persists.

  My eyes are now open, which I don’t remember doing. But I sure as hell hope this is the only time in my life that my first waking sight is Coach’s face this close to mine.

  “Ow,” I moan.

  They laugh, the assholes. “Dude, how’s next week look?” Vaughn asks.

  “Where do you hurt?” Avery asks. “Can you wiggle your toes? Do you remember what happened?”

  I know he’s t
rying to be helpful, but all I know is that I can breathe, so that’s all I do.

  “OK, let’s move you off the ice,” Coach says. He and Peters each take an armpit and lift me. The rink lurches, but I stay on my feet.

  They set me on the bench and head back out to drop the puck again. Still inside the zone, because no penalty was assessed on Daniel for charging me from the top of the circle.

  Megan hovers worriedly over me as I sag onto the bench.

  “I think I’m fine,” I tell her.

  “I think you should get checked out,” she says. “You actually blacked out for a few seconds.”

  Other than feeling like I took a butt end of the stick between the shoulder blades, I don’t feel too bad.

  “Can you follow my finger?” Megan asks, zooming her index finger around in front of my face.

  “Should I be able to? You’re buzzing around like a bee.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  I take stock. “My head doesn’t hurt. Maybe a little light-headed but not bad.” I tilt my head in a gentle stretch. “Neck feels fine. Legs are fine. I think I’m OK.”

  Coach doesn’t let me back on the ice, though, which seems to excite my team even more.

  I stomp to my closet after practice. I feel completely and totally fine. I could have finished the scrimmage.

  I toss my gloves and helmet in my bag and start unlacing my skates. There’s a knock on the door. That’s new. I stand and open it.

  “Manning,” Coach says, staying in the hallway.

  “Hey, Coach.”

  “How’s the head?”

  “Totally fine.”

  “Well, your team sure is worried about you.”

  “Are they.” Yeah, right.

  “Daniel feels real bad, says he didn’t mean to hit you that hard. He thinks his elbow may have hit the back of your head and that’s what knocked you out.”