Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  “Oh. Well, it feels fine now.”

  “Good, good. He wanted me to know in case I thought you should get checked out. We take head injuries real serious these days. You actually have to have a doctor’s clearance to play again if you get hit in the head.”

  “I don’t think Daniel hit me in the head. I think he got me between the shoulder blades.”

  “Well, he said it was head. I asked him several times because I wanted to be sure. Like I said, we take head injuries seriously these days.”

  “So you’re saying I have to go to the doctor?”

  He nods. “To be on the safe side. Can’t let you back on the ice again until a doctor clears you.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “OK. I’ll get you a note ASAP.” How? Where am I going to get a doctor’s note at nine at night? With thirty-six hours to go until the Showcase.

  “Good, good. Need that head, kid. Got a lot of school still ahead of you.”

  Yeah. Wouldn’t want to end up like you, Coach.

  And Daniel, so concerned about letting Coach know he’d hit my head. He might actually be smarter than I give him credit for.

  I change quickly and hustle out to Dad’s car. As I jam my bag in the back, I holler up to him. “I gotta go to the doc. One of those idiots says he hit me in the head and knocked me out and Coach won’t let me play until I get a doctor’s note. Do you think I can get in tomorrow morning? I need to be on the ice tomorrow. If I’m not, I’ll miss the Showcase —”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dad says, hopping out of the car. “You got knocked out?”

  “Yeah, for like a second.”

  “Well, are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” I shove my sticks in the back of the car and look up. Dad’s frozen with a look of panic on his face. I soften. “I feel perfect, Dad. This is just a formality.”

  “OK. Geez. OK.” He exhales loudly and pulls me into a hug. Dad’s not a hugger — no one in my family is.

  “I’m sweaty,” I remind him, speaking into his fleece jacket.

  “That’s OK,” he says. “I can’t believe you got knocked out. No one called an ambulance?”

  “No. I didn’t need it.”

  “You don’t know that.” He leads me around to the passenger’s seat. “Sit.”

  He reclines the seat until I’m staring at the ceiling and buckles the seat belt, pulling it tight. Apparently breathing isn’t necessary for recovery.

  “This is ridiculous, Dad.”

  He starts the car and turns in the opposite direction of home.

  “We’re going now?” I ask.

  “Yes. You could have a fracture or a head bleed and not even know it.”

  “Mom’s going to be pissed.”

  He exhales. “Yes.”

  Dad drives to the ER and makes me wait in the car while he checks me in, with strict orders not to move a muscle. When he comes back to the car, two guys in scrubs are with him. Without even saying hello first, they lock my head into a stiff white neck brace.

  “Don’t move,” one of them says.

  “Uh, I can’t.”

  “Good.”

  It’s supremely uncomfortable. I “don’t move” while they debate on how to get me out of the car. It seems that they’re used to getting their patients prepackaged by the EMTs and they don’t have the means to do it themselves. So they make me wait, lying on the front seat of the car with this awful collar, like I’m going to lick my stitches without it, until the ambulance pulls in. Apparently those guys can get me safely out of the car without moving my spine. Never mind that I carried a hockey bag out of the rink and my spine was fine with that.

  But there’s still more waiting because the guy in the ambulance is actually dying and they have to save him first. This seems to go well but takes a long time.

  Finally, the EMTs come out. They make jokes about me smelling like hockey the whole time they hook me into a straitjacket thing and get me on a backboard. Effing Daniel must be laughing his butt off somewhere. Meanwhile, Dad paces nervously in the background, arguing with Mom over the phone. “Yes, I’m sure she needed to go in tonight. No, I didn’t want to wait and see if Dr. Joe could get her in tomorrow. Because we need to make sure she’s OK now. You can’t let someone sleep without knowing if they have a head injury. Yes, I’m aware that it’s going to cost more …”

  Icky feeling in my chest doesn’t ease the discomfort from being strapped to a hard board. They wheel me into the ER.

  And then we wait some more.

  I’m not allowed to eat dinner, despite burning a gazillion calories at practice. My homework is not getting done. Again. I’m going to be sore as hell tomorrow — not from the hit but from this board. I’d kill for a shower right now. I can practically hear the zits popping up on my sweat-caked forehead.

  Hours later — literally, hours — they jam an X-ray plate in the miniscule space between my spine and the board and find out that my spine is whole and unbroken. I am freed from the board.

  But I still don’t get to go home.

  “Do you have a headache?” the neurologist asks.

  “God, yes,” I answer crankily.

  “How long after the injury did it start?” he asks.

  “As soon as they strapped me to that board,” I say.

  “Dizziness?” he asks. “Light-headedness?”

  “Of course I’m dizzy and light-headed. I skipped dinner after practice and I’m tired.” It’s nearing midnight by now.

  “OK. Well, we’re going to run you through the CT scan and see how your head looks,” he says.

  “Um, sir? I feel fine, really.”

  “Precaution,” he says. “I’m sure it’s negative.”

  “Is it a really expensive precaution?” I ask, not looking at Dad.

  “Mich,” Dad warns. “Your head’s more important than an ER bill.”

  So they motor me into the machine, one of those space-age-looking tubes. I almost fall asleep, I’m so tired. Except it’s nerve-racking and I’m not supposed to move at all. Again. My insides squirm with the pressure of staying still. It would be heaven to curl up on my side.

  Luckily, I have the brain of a sixteen-year-old girl. Insert joke here.

  Do I finally get to walk out of there? Nope. We wait an hour more for the paperwork that says I’m fine. Even though we are the last people left in the ER — even the almost-died guy is gone — and you’d think with nothing else to do, signing a couple of pieces of paper would take the doc only a few seconds.

  I stumble to the car and raid Dad’s granola bar stash again before falling asleep in the passenger seat.

  * * *

  At five minutes before class in the morning, I slap a piece of paper onto Coach’s desk. He lifts the sheet of Community Hospital letterhead.

  “Well, that is good news,” he says. “You gave us quite a worry.”

  “See you at practice, Coach.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

  I’m not, actually. They want me out of the Showcase and they only have one day left to accomplish this goal. I’m terrified, even walking down the school hallways. I wouldn’t put it past them to drop a trash can on my head, poison my lunch, cut a trapdoor in the floor that only I will trigger and fall into. I’m sure they’ve got more coming for me at practice today.

  The only thing I’ve got going for me is speed. I have to out-skate them. Keep the plays out of the corner. I need to have eyes in the back of my head and wings on my feet today.

  I skate a few laps to warm up, testing my body, trying to work the stiffness from my neck and back. When I look up between stretches, Dad is standing on the bench. He’s dressed in full uniform, which I hope doesn’t mean something’s wrong. He should be at work for another hour at least.

  Dad wa
ves at Coach, who skates over to the bench. They have a short talk; it seems fairly friendly. There’s a handshake at the end. And then Coach calls Daniel over.

  Acid swirls in my stomach. I have stopped skating now. I watch as Dad crosses his arms over his chest. Daniel takes his helmet off and speaks to both Coach and Dad, his head hanging.

  “Michigan!” Coach hollers.

  Reluctantly, I skate to the bench. “Dad. Hey. What’s up?”

  “Hey, kiddo. I just wanted to give Coach the specifics from our trip to the ER last night. And see how you look at practice today. Which is great, by the way.”

  “It’s warm-ups, Dad.” I give him an embarrassed shrug.

  Dad nudges Daniel’s shoulder. “Son?”

  Daniel clears his throat and looks up at me. With his back to Dad and Coach, hatred radiates from his eyes and his mouth twists into an ugly sneer. But his voice sounds contrite. “Michigan, I’m sorry about the hit yesterday. Sometimes I forget you’re not used to playing with boys. I’m glad you’re OK.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m perfectly fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

  “OK, you two,” Coach says. “Back to practice.”

  “Mind if I stay and watch today?” Dad asks Coach.

  “Of course not. If it were me, I’d want to make sure my daughter looked healthy out there.”

  Dad rests his hand on his hip. Right next to his holstered revolver. “And make sure she stayed healthy.”

  No one comes within three feet of me at practice.

  * * *

  Brie comes over Friday night. We watch Miracle and she paints my toenails and fingernails green and gold. Just like old times. But as nice as it is to have a social evening, I’m exhausted. After surviving school and practice on only four hours of sleep, I can’t stay awake through the big USA vs. Russia game. Luckily, I already know how it turns out.

  I jerk awake as Brie’s phone buzzes and blares her Taylor Swift ringtone. Brie squeals into her phone and turns the TV off, just as Eruzione beckons to the team to join him on the podium. I growl at Brie, although I would have missed the historic moment even if her phone hadn’t woken me up.

  “People congregating at the Arthurs’,” she says. “Comb your hair and let’s go.”

  I yawn as I stumble to my feet. “Sorry. Big game tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

  “You suck.”

  “Yep. I’m OK with that. As long as I get some sleep.”

  “Fine. Be boring the entire time I’m in town.”

  I don’t feel a shred of guilt. I push myself off the couch and to the stairs. “I’m sure you’ll miss me. G’night.”

  Brie knows where the door is. She might even manage to open it without chipping her fancy mani.

  I thought I was tired but I can’t sleep. I toss and turn.

  19

  It is chaos in the bowels of the arena. But really cool chaos. I’m not sure if it’s excitement I’m inhaling or the smell of fried junk food and buttered popcorn, but my stomach skips as I carry my bag through the arena tunnels.

  The cavernous hallways surrounding the rink bustle with medical staff, the ice maintenance crew, a slew of reporters and TV cameras and lots of important-looking people in suits talking into radios. Skate sharpeners buzz loudly through the hallways. Steaming water ricochets out of the garage as the ice crew hose down their metal-studded tires. Four different high school bands warm up in four separate corners of the stands, all of them predictably out of tune.

  “I am so sorry,” the suited lady with a walkie-talkie says to me. “We don’t have an extra locker room for you. But the university coaches have offered to let you use their changing room. I put clean towels and fresh soap in there for you. And I’ll lock up while you’re on the ice. Will that be OK?”

  I grin. I get a shower? But then I hesitate. “I don’t want to kick the coaches out. Especially on their game day.”

  “Oh, no, they’re happy to do it. They’re not skating today; they don’t need it. It’s your game day, too.”

  A real bench to sit on. Hangers for my clothes. Not a spider in sight. Welcome to the big time.

  * * *

  All four high school teams are dressed and lined up in the tunnel leading to the rink entrance. The reporters aren’t allowed to interview us before the game, but there are a lot of photographers and they all seem to have their lenses trained on me. I try to shrink back behind Avery. I don’t need this attention, especially before the game. They might as well sew a bull’s-eye on the back of my jersey.

  “Hey,” Avery hisses. “Get up here. Quit shirking. You need to look confident right now.”

  He’s right. Predator, not prey. I’m no easy meal. “Shirking?” I tease.

  “Sounds dirty, right?” He winks. From Avery, it’s just a funny joke, not intended to make me uncomfortable. I lift an earbud out of his ear and jam it into my own.

  He holds out his phone. “Your pick.”

  “Tragically Hip? What the heck?”

  He shrugs. “Canadian.”

  I switch it to Ozzy Osbourne. Avery lifts his eyebrows and nods along. “Oh, yeah. Let’s play some hockey today, Manning.”

  Each team gets a ten-minute half-ice warm-up. I try to pay attention to our drills, but I can’t help searching the crowd for Jack, for my family. The section of green and gold, usually crammed together on our small bleachers, is swallowed up by the vast arena. It’s so big from the ice, the seats stretching toward the high ceilings, that it’s hard to remember the ice sheet itself is the same size as Owl River Community Ice.

  The national anthem is played by the university band. Then my team skates off the ice, and Houghton plays Hancock Central High School for a twenty-minute period.

  Our first game is against our Homecoming rival, Calumet, the team with the flirtatious opposing center. He winks across the face-off dot. But since it’s a one-period game, we face off against each other only once.

  I win it.

  And the period. Halfway through, during a cluster in front of the net, I poke the puck in. As I pump my fist on the way to the bench, my ears strain for Trent’s yell, for Jack hooting from way up in the cheap seats. But the crowd is drowned out by Coach’s “Attagirl, Michigan!” He happily pounds his clipboard on the plexiglass behind him and high-fives Assistant Coach Peters.

  If hell’s freezing over, at least I’ve got skates on my feet.

  We win our first mini-game 1–0. We’re playing back-to-back, so we get a whole two minutes between periods to celebrate our win. One minute and fifty-five seconds more than I need, since it only takes Avery and me five seconds to exchange stick-whacks to the shins.

  Hancock High puts the pressure on early in our second game. Not only are they rested but they’re also ranked number one in the league. Hard hits, fast feet. I’m checked off the puck in the first shift, but I kind of like it. They’re not treating me any differently from the rest of my team.

  At least I stay on my feet when I get hit. Unlike Daniel.

  It’s going to be tough getting one past this team, or so I think, as a tired center changes on the fly late in the period. I hop over the boards, ready to join my team in our defensive zone. But the puck thunks against my shin pad as my skates hit the ice. I can hear Avery laughing as I chase his long clearing pass into the offensive zone, my fresh legs giving me an advantage over the tired D. I bury the puck five-hole on the surprised goalie. The game ends in a tie.

  We have to sit through an ice make and another period before we play again. I pace the rubber matting in the tunnel, hoping to keep my muscles warm as my soaking-wet gear chills. We get only two minutes on the ice before the puck drops on our last mini-game. There’s no time to think about how tired I am or how my sweaty gear is going to do some mean chafing this game. I get my skates moving and use those two minutes to spark a much-needed rush of adrenaline.
br />   I can tell the boys are tired, all except Avery, who vowed nothing would get past him this game. The D is starting to sit back, the wingers are creeping up higher. I’m playing both ends of the ice hard, and it’s a lot of skating this late in the day. We’re both scoreless so far, and I’m desperately looking for any opportunity to put the puck on net. Best I’m going to get is that Sanders has set up camp at the back door of the Houghton net. I hit his tape with a swift pass.

  And the dumbass fumbles it. What’s the point of sitting at the back door if you’re not ready for a pass? He kicks at the puck as I charge the net. The goalie dives into the crease, hoping to cover, and one of his D falls over him. I whack at the puck and the D slams his hand down over it.

  Whistle.

  Ref makes the call, crossing his arms over his head. Yes! I pump my fist. Our fans go apeshit.

  “Who’s on the shot, Coach?” the ref barks at the bench.

  Without hesitating, Coach points at me. “Sixteen.”

  Holy fuck. I get to take the penalty shot.

  I coast to center ice. This is the first time I’ve ever played this team; I’ve never faced their goalie before. I know nothing about him. There’s no time to go to the bench for instructions.

  So I’ll play to my strength. Which is that I am a female forward. The goalie will assume that I have a weak and inconsistent slapshot that doesn’t see a lot of use.

  It’s OK that he’s assuming correctly.

  The ref sets the puck at center ice. I stand behind it, aware of the four thousand pairs of eyes on me. Four thousand pairs of feet stomping the floorboards. Four thousand vocal cords screaming for or against me.

  I settle my gaze on the puck and breathe. The only eyes that matter are those of the ref who will make the call when my puck crosses the goal line. The only feet that matter are mine, poised on the inside edges of my skates, tensed for acceleration. The only sounds that matter are the scrape of my skates on the ice, the tap of the puck off my blade.

  And the whistle that tells me to go. I pick up the puck and skate in. At the top of the circle I wind up.