Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  “Coach Henson picks the team,” I say. “None of us will make it.”

  “If we’re faster and better than the boys, he’ll have to take us,” Brie says. “That man likes to win.” He has to, or the boosters will toss him like they did his predecessor. Coach Henson has been here three years and he’s still trying to whip those boys into shape. My guess is he’s getting nervous watching his game clock tick down. He can’t afford to take a chance on us.

  I scan the room, mentally placing bets on our odds. I have no doubt Brie could hang. She was the only girl on her teams growing up. She’d never played with girls until she moved to Owl River and joined our team freshman year.

  Cherrie is right. The coach will keep his two stellar goalies, no need for a third. Laura splits time between swimming and hockey, and while our coach had allowed it, most wouldn’t. Delia is tiny, which won’t work so well for playing defense against bigger guys. Jordan just doesn’t have the speed and skill.

  I don’t know where I fall. Coach always said I have the best shot on the team. I’m pretty fast. For a girl. But I’ve never thrown a real hit. Not on a guy, most of whom are twice my size.

  Out of sixteen girls, I figure only Brie is a sure bet. And that’s because I know she can bully her way into a spot. Not only does she have an unfiltered mouth and Daddy’s credit card, but she did date the captain of the boys’ team last year. None of the rest of us have that kind of leverage. I’m reaching for my phone to google “how to spike coffee” when Brie’s parents poke their heads through her doorway.

  Dr. Hampton’s eyes go straight to the pile of oozing ice-cream containers in the middle of Brie’s ice-colored carpet. I hastily scrub a licked finger across a drop of chocolate on the floor next to my foot. Unsuccessful.

  Mr. Hampton’s gaze focuses immediately on his daughter, purposely avoiding the other fifteen girls in the room. For an attorney with a killer reputation, it’s funny how terrified he is of teenaged girls. As soon as Brie hit dating age, he started blood pressure meds. If you play Lady Gaga near him or talk about tattoos, you can actually see the migraine forming. It’s kind of a game for us, usually resulting in a later curfew and extra money for our evening out.

  But tonight he looks triumphant, like he won a big case.

  “Good news, Brie,” her mom says, hooking a plastic grocery bag over one hand and shuttling ice-cream pints into it with the other.

  I jump up and begin collecting trash to add to her bag.

  “Did you find a way to keep the team?” Brie asks. Hope rises quickly in the room, pulling the girls up to fully seated positions.

  “No.” Dr. Hampton eyes the rest of us. It suddenly feels like we shouldn’t all be here.

  “We were able to secure a position for Brie,” Mr. Hampton says. “At the Wiltshire Academy, in Chicago.”

  A pink plastic spoon, dripping with caramel, slips out of my hand and glues itself to Brie’s pale blue comforter. Chicago. Her big-time lawyer dad didn’t even try to save the team. Around the room, girls slump back to their pillows, reaching for the nearest half-empty carton before Dr. Hampton can snag it.

  “It was the last spot on the roster,” Mr. Hampton adds, his eyes on the floor, lest he glimpse a bra strap or tampon wrapper. “But if Wiltshire still had a spot available, that means there are other schools with roster spots left. Start calling around, girls, or have your parents do it.”

  “Boarding school tuition? It would have been cheaper to sponsor us,” Emma whispers to me. Not as quiet as she thought she had.

  “There is still school tomorrow,” Dr. Hampton says. “For the rest of you. Brie, even though it’s no longer a school night for you, we have a lot of details to attend to before you leave for Chicago.”

  “When?” I croak. My eyes lock with Brie’s. Her hands reach out and grip mine.

  “We’ll move you in this weekend. Classes start on Monday.”

  Brie is silent.

  And there it is. The first sign of the apocalypse.

  * * *

  The second comes the next morning.

  “Silver Lake’s goalie had shoulder surgery this summer! They don’t have a backup!” Cherrie squeals. She nearly runs into my locker door as I open it.

  “Sucks for them.” I contemplate options for my wet raincoat. Drip all over my locker or wear it to class until it dries? “Wait, why do we care about Silver Lake’s goaltending situation?”

  Cherrie’s excited expression ebbs into one of guilt.

  I freeze, immune to the raindrops sploshing from my coat onto my shoes. “Cherrie. You didn’t.”

  She holds her hands up. “Don’t be mad. Their coach offered me the backup. What else are we supposed to do?”

  I shove my wet raincoat into the bottom of my locker. Who cares if it won’t dry, I’m going to get soaked walking home anyway. “Congrats, I guess.”

  Cherrie grips my biceps. “Listen, Mich. Their coach agreed to get approval for us to play with them, but he won’t cut his own players. So there are only three roster spots left. He’ll take anyone who’s willing to drive.”

  My heart rate quickens. We’re not dead yet. But it’s only three spots. How will we choose who gets them? And what about the rest of the team? The words “willing to drive” knock against my skull. Over an hour to Silver Lake. And an hour back. If the roads are good. Five nights a week. And that’s just for practice.

  “I don’t have a car,” I remind Cherrie.

  “So carpool with us.”

  “Wait, who’s ‘us’?”

  “I’m going to ask Di and Hanna.”

  Obviously, our two best players, besides Brie and me. This all seems wrong, though. Shouldn’t there be some kind of a team discussion? A tryout? Who’s running this team if Cherrie’s suddenly in charge of doling out roster spots like a hockey Santa?

  She crosses her arms and pouts at me. Rainy walk to school and a cranky goalie. Great start to my day.

  “Do you want to play this season or not?”

  I do want it. I am craving ice time. Which is stupid because it’s September. We wouldn’t be practicing yet anyway. But knowing I have nowhere to play this season makes me want it even more. I stuck my nose into my hockey bag last night, just to get a whiff of that stale-sweat hockey smell.

  And then I’d started crying again for the thirty-eighth time.

  I don’t think Coach would have given me that A if she’d known this was how I’d lead her team. But what if walking away from them is the only way I’ll get to play this season? I need time to figure out another solution before Cherrie starts selling the team for parts like a car thief.

  “Let me check with my parents,” I say, digging my phone out of my backpack.

  * * *

  “Yes or no?” Cherrie asks, setting her brown bag next to mine at our usual lunch table.

  “Nothing yet.” I’m pretty sure I know what Mom will say about driving to Silver Lake every day. So I texted Dad. But when he’s out on patrol he doesn’t answer unless it’s an emergency. Literally. Didn’t think I should go through the 911 operator for this one.

  Di and Hanna squeeze in next to Cherrie, as if they’re already their own team. Traitors stick together, I guess.

  “So who’s coming with us?” Di asks Cherrie.

  Cherrie nods at me. “Hopefully Mich. She’s working on it.”

  Across from me, Jordan inclines her head. I meet her eyes reluctantly. “Cherrie found a couple of spots on Silver Lake’s roster.”

  “You’re leaving us?” Whit turns on Cherrie, sitting across from her.

  Jordan’s glare slips from Cherrie to Di to Hanna. “Snap up the best players we got left and get the hell outta Dodge?”

  Cherrie shrugs and primly picks onions out of her tuna wrap, dropping the purple squares onto her napkin.

  “Do you have a better idea, Jordan?”
Di asks, her eyes narrowed and voice sharp.

  Instead of answering, Jordan sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles loudly. She aims her perma-glare behind me. I pivot on my seat to see Laura, Delia and Emma pass by, carrying their own bagged lunches.

  “Uh, hello?” I gesture to the same table where the girls’ hockey team has always eaten lunch, at least for the last two years.

  “Oh,” Laura says. She fiddles nervously with the tab on her pop. “I’m introducing Delia and Emma to the other swimmers today.”

  Delia nods. “Laura convinced us to go out for swimming with her. Since the team is …” She shrugs. “I’m pretty good on backstroke. And Emma lifeguarded for the coaches this summer.”

  “It’ll actually be much easier for me this year, only balancing one sport,” Laura says defensively.

  “But we’re still upset about the team,” Emma adds. “And we’ll still sit with you whenever we can.” They wave and hurry off. Run away while they still can. Or swim away.

  Plague, pests, swimming. And the four horsemen galloping off toward Silver Lake. I growl into my yogurt.

  “So, Cherrie,” Jordan says, her voice thick with Cheetos and poison. “Thanks for inviting the rest of us to play on your shiny new team.”

  Cherrie’s cheeks match her name as she stares down at her lunch. There’s a reason Jordo’s always been our team enforcer. And that goes for verbal fights, too.

  “There’s no way to save our team,” Di says. “It’s over. And Brie’s leaving.”

  “And our goalie,” Jordan says. “So even if we did figure out a way to keep the team, we’re screwed.”

  “Well, I’m still waiting to hear your great idea,” Di says.

  The entire table looks to me. And I don’t have a single answer. I left the A Coach gave me in my dresser drawer this morning, but I still feel it burning against my left shoulder.

  “What’s the point?” Jordan asks, tearing into a packet of Oreos. She crams a whole one in her mouth, still staring down Cherrie. Jordo’s like a Chow dog; once she gets her jaws around someone, she won’t let go. Cherrie’s lucky the Oreo is taking the beating. So far.

  Hanna nudges Di, who reaches over to scoop up the remains of Cherrie’s picked-apart lunch. “I so don’t feel like getting into a Jordo fight today. Let’s go raid the donuts at the Gas ‘n’ Snack.” Cherrie scrambles out of her seat and the Silver Lake trio stalks off.

  I sigh at Jordan, but really I’m angry at myself for sitting like a pylon on the ice instead of stepping up to lead what’s left of this team. “So what now?” I ask the sparse table.

  “Sorry, Mich,” Jordan says. “It’s not like I expected them to ask me. I’m not good enough to play anywhere else. Don’t know why Coach kept me as long as she did.”

  I’d argue, but it’d be a short debate. Jordo’s never been in great shape. She has too many bad habits: greasy food, cheap beer, purposely throwing body checks when she wants to rest for two minutes. Instead, I ask, “Kendall?”

  Kendall’s shoulders droop. “My parents said I need to concentrate on grades anyway. So I guess I’m done. Retired at the ripe old age of seventeen.”

  “But don’t you want to skate?” I ask the whole table, but I’m looking at Kendall especially. She and I have been on every team together since we were nine. I don’t know what a hockey bench would smell like without her rotating seasonal perfume collection. Don’t want to know.

  Whit holds her palm up to Jordan. “Beer league, baby. Eighteen’s old enough to play pickup on Sunday nights.”

  Jordan doesn’t look too upset about that concept. She high-fives Whit. “Finally. I can combine the two things I love best. Senior year’s not looking so bad.”

  “I’m starting a skate club at my church, if you want to join,” Jeannie says to me. For some reason, her Yooper accent gets even thicker when she talks about church. She really puts the “eh” in “amen.”

  “It sounds like toe picks might be involved.”

  “Oh, you can skate in your Vapors. It’ll mostly be me teaching the kids how to stop or do two-foot spins.”

  “Plus the added benefit of going to heaven,” Jordan says.

  “Mich.” Kendall slides into Cherrie’s empty seat next to me. “You should go to Silver Lake with them. We won’t be mad. We understand.”

  Jordo just nods, her mouth full of cookie again.

  “You’re too good to retire to Sunday beer league,” Whit agrees.

  Not to mention too young. I know I still have goals left in my stick. Silver Lake is my last chance.

  Mom and Dad, please say yes.

  3

  “No.”

  Mom drops two aromatic bags of Louie’s takeout on the kitchen table and scowls at the pile of mail at her spot. She kicks off her scuffed pumps while doling out the food. Dad slides his newspaper over to make room for a condensation-filled plastic box of pasta. Trent charges into the room and crashes into his seat, simultaneously flipping open the lid of his pasta and the tab on his pop. He stabs a piece of sausage and is chewing before I’ve even finished my sentence.

  “Dad?” I plead.

  The man carries a gun for a living but he still exchanges a look with Mom before he answers. “Sorry, kiddo.”

  “Why?” I stick my hands on my hips and stare them down. “This is my only chance to play hockey this season.”

  “That would suck,” Trent says through his mouthful.

  “It already sucks,” I say. “What about college, Dad?”

  “You don’t need hockey to go to college,” Mom says. Not that she knows anything about real college. Or hockey.

  “It sure would be nice.”

  Dad sets down his fork and gives me his full attention. This is the man who put me in my first pair of pink Bauers when I was two years old. I let my eyes well with tears, which have been on standby all day anyway. “Mich, I know that’s what you want,” he says. “And I want — we want — that for you, too. But college hockey is a long shot. This team in Silver Lake, they’re an OK team. They’re nothing special. We’re talking full days of school, a long drive, practice, another long drive and then homework. Late nights with not enough sleep. Are you willing to live like that, just to play hockey? Spending your evenings in the car, your weekends in the car, no social life.”

  “That would be my social life. Hockey is my social life. Those are my friends.”

  “You’d only be with three of your friends,” Mom reminds me. Wounds from Brie’s impending departure reopen in my chest.

  “I’m used to traveling a lot. I can handle it. And we’ll do homework in the car.”

  Mom snorts. “You won’t do homework in the car. Does that Di even do homework? You know she’ll be driving fast with the music loud. You won’t get anything done. You’ll put your life in danger every day just to practice with a mediocre team.” She plops into her seat, her chicken-topped salad and the TV remote on the plastic placemat in front of her. I know what she’s doing, playing the dangerous-teen-driver card for my state trooper dad. I up the ante with the ace of grades.

  “I’ll maintain all A’s. Promise. If I slip, you can make me quit.”

  “No,” Mom says, already scrolling through the TV guide.

  But Dad makes a humph-sigh sound. I turn on my weakening prey.

  “Dad, I’ll take on extra chores around the house when I’m home. To offset gas money.”

  “No,” Mom says.

  “Sleep on it?” I plead. “Please? You know how important this is to me, right?”

  Dad jumps in before Mom can. “We’ll sleep on it.”

  “All I’m asking.” I pick at my dinner to avoid Mom’s frown.

  * * *

  I text Cherrie while I should be keeping my end of that all-A’s promise I made. Still maybe. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

  It kind o
f sounded like you were a no.

  Well, they said no. But then Dad agreed to sleep on it.

  The thing is, at first you said they said no.

  Wait. Does this mean …???

  Kara’s parents said yes. We thought you were a no.

  I type: Kara? She barely scored a point all last season.

  And then I delete it. This is not the time for our team to fall apart.

  What team? I toss my phone onto my desk without replying to Cherrie. Two days ago, I had a team and a coach and a best friend who lived less than a mile from me. I had a shiny new A for my jersey, an off-season conditioning program and a lot to look forward to.

  There’s a knock from my open door. Trent leans on the doorframe, because apparently eighth-grade boys need something to hold them upright at all times.

  “Coach Norman said to call him.” Trent holds out his phone. News travels fast in a town where the biggest building is the ice rink.

  “What for?” I realize I’m wiping my eyes yet again. They’ll be permanently raw.

  He smirks. “We need a backup goalie and you look like you could pass for a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  “Ha ha.” I could not pass for a thirteen-year-old boy. I shower too often.

  “Just call him. It won’t fix anything but it’ll make you feel better.”

  I could use a Coach Norman pep talk. He coached me when I was Trent’s age. He’s the best coach I’ve ever had. His practices are actually fun and he treats his players like they’re real humans, not just hockey players or kids. Or girls.

  He’s also really hot and young (-er than my parents at least). I still have a major crush on him. Sadly, Coach Norman has a gorgeous girlfriend his own age and gives me noogies through my helmet.

  I take Trent’s phone, with Coach Norman’s number on the screen.

  “Hey, I need that,” he says. “Use your own phone.”

  “You gave it to me.”

  “Yeah, to get his number.”

  I tighten my grip on the phone. “Get out. I’ll give your phone back when I’m done.”