Michigan vs. the Boys Page 4

  There are no ladders or benches, but eventually I find a large cinder block — by stubbing my toe on it. I drag it, scraping loudly across the floor, to the base of the pennant wall. Stretching up from my tiptoes, I snag the only pennant I can reach. It pulls off easily. I step down, holding it away from my face to shake the dust off it.

  Jack Ray, Michigan High School Athletic Association, 2017 U.P. Finals, 100 Freestyle, 42.68

  Jack stood alone on a starting block, dived into the water and relied on no one but himself to push across the finish line before the other seven swimmers. He accomplished that.

  Megan moved to town. She needed a hockey team. She tied her skates like a big girl, sitting on the floor of the women’s bathroom without whining about it. She beat out at least half of those boys and earned her spot on the AAA team.

  Cherrie was desperate to play. So she found a team. Di, Kara and Hanna were desperate to play. They jumped at the chance. Brie … It hurts, but Brie got in that car and went. For the first time, she went without me. I’ve been part of a team for so long that maybe I’ve forgotten how to do something by myself.

  I roll the pennant up and carry it home, jogging like a track athlete with a baton. At home, I open my hockey bag and slide the rolled pennant into my skate.

  There’s one high school hockey team left in this town. Tryouts are in two days. I’ll be there.

  5

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  Sign-ups should be the easiest part of getting on a school sports team. All we have to do is fill out a packet of paperwork. They even provide pens. The Athletics secretary hovers nearby, ready to help anyone who can’t sign their own names or spell “hockey.” Which, believe me, is a possibility with some of these guys.

  But I am in the hallway, like a big huge wuss, peeking through the ajar doorway. The Athletic Office is crammed full of guys in team jackets. Talking smack to each other, inflating their stats and their skills. Strutting and posturing and turning their Yooper accents on thick like they do on the bench. It’s stupid — I played with a couple of these guys all the way up to bantams. This is just what they do. No one actually believes that Carson Reilly had four points in a single game last year.

  I did. But that was girls’ hockey and everyone here would laugh me off the ice if I brought it up.

  So I wait until they’ve all turned in their paperwork and sauntered out of the Athletic Office. I dart in, grab a packet from the secretary’s desk and hide in the nearest bathroom. I fill out my paperwork on the laminate counter, smearing the corners of the pages in the soapy puddles of water around the sink.

  I abbreviate my name on the forms. M. Manning. It’s a small school and I assume Coach Henson knows most of the girls from my team, at least by the names on the backs of our jerseys. But there’s no reason to draw attention to myself.

  Right. I’ll show up at tryouts, make the team and then — ta-da! — pull off my helmet, and my long brown hair will cascade forth and no one will care. I don’t even know if it’s legal for me to play on the boys’ team. If it’s against league rules or school rules or Assmont rules.

  Then don’t ask, Jack had said. Excellent advice.

  When the coast is clear, I slip my paperwork into the middle of the stack in the office and run like hell.

  * * *

  For tryouts, I wear a plain black jersey and plain white hockey socks nabbed from Dad’s hockey bag instead of my green-and-gold-striped team socks or my team practice jersey. I scrub my face clean of makeup and spend forty-five minutes on a complicated braid that will fit completely under my helmet. Actually have to refit my helmet to get it on.

  Also, if I ever get asked to prom, I’m definitely doing the same hairstyle. Too bad it’ll be wasted under a helmet tonight.

  Since I’m the only girl here, the rink manager wouldn’t let me use a full locker room. And someone’s mom was hogging the women’s restroom. But the manager did unlock a broom closet for me to change in. I counted three spiders.

  So here I sit, my cute braids smashed under my helmet, listening to the faint sounds of male laughter drifting through the walls from the guys’ locker rooms on either side of me. They get two locker rooms to accommodate the full tryout roster while I dodge spiders and try not to notice what’s floating in the dirty water of the mop bucket.

  I’ve been playing hockey since I was six. I have now coached three bantam practices and have zero problem showing up those boys when necessary. Which is frequently.

  Pre-game butterflies are normal for me, but today there are dragons brawling in my gut. I have no idea what to expect out here. I can’t order these guys to do push-ups if they make a rude comment. If I get laughed off the ice … well, I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t tell anyone I’m here. Not Brie, who has only texted three lousy lines in the last week. Not my former teammates, who are busy with their new activities. Not Jack, who’s given me seven adorably sexy smiles in the hallway at school. Not my parents, who would definitely flip if they found out about this.

  I peek out the door. The Zamboni machine is still circling the ice. I’ll wait until everyone’s out there and then sneak onto the ice before anything gets started. Blend in, lie low.

  “Coach?” asks a girl’s voice. There’s another girl here? My head whips around.

  It’s Megan. Standing in the hallway, shifting a pile of clipboards, with a bucket of pucks at her feet.

  “You recognized me?” Not Hi, Megan! Not What are you doing here? But Oh, shit, I’m recognizable.

  “I’d recognize your stick anywhere.” She gestures to the butt end, which is wrapped in neon pink tape. Wow. I’m sure all the guys have Barbie-pink tape on their stick handles. Way to blend in, Manning.

  “It’s so great that you’re trying out,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I snort. “That remains to be seen.”

  She reshuffles the clipboards. “No, no. You’ve got this. I’ve seen you skate at my practices and that was only half speed. I’ve watched a lot of tape on these guys, and believe me, they’re not as skilled as you.”

  “You’ve watched their tape? Are you a manager or something?”

  “Unofficially. My stepdad’s the coach.”

  No. Way. “So you really think I can keep up?”

  She cocks her head and a blond curl tips out from behind her ear. “Haven’t you ever seen them play?”

  “Of course. I go to all their home games if we’re not playing.”

  Duh. I mentally smack myself on the helmet. I do know how these guys play. Not only did I play with some of them as a kid, but I’ve watched them. Sat in the bleachers with my girls and pointed out every mistake they made, as if we’d do better ourselves.

  And I can. They’re a dump-and-chase-and-collide kind of offense and I’m a cycle-until-you-have-a-chance kind of forward. There’s a good possibility I do have better hands, better eyes than most of them.

  The problem is that I’m used to playing with teammates who skated the puck well and passed a lot. I know I’m not going to be able to rely on these guys. I’ll have to do it myself.

  “They’ll have size, strength and stride length on you,” Megan says, as if she’s been following my mental path.

  “So I’ll have to be quick.” Quick feet, quick on the draw, quick on the turnover.

  “And smart.”

  I nod. Look for the open ice. Pick my opportunities. Don’t barrel in.

  Behind us, the rink manager scrapes the last bit of snow off the ice. Boys will be pouring out of the locker rooms any second now. I step back toward my broom closet. “I’m just gonna —”

  “Uh-uh,” Megan says, with an awfully knowing smirk for a thirteen-year-old. She points to the rink. “First on the ice.”

  I can’t shrink back now. This kid skated confidently onto this same sheet of ice only a week ago, one girl in a sea of eighth-grade boy
s. Lead weights attach to my skates, but I force them forward to the rink door. First one on the ice.

  It’s the same smooth white sheet I’ve known all my life. The same blue face-off dot at center ice. The same scratched red goalposts and nets patched with bits of skate lace. This is my home ice. I’ve won a helluva lot of battles here.

  I’ll do it again.

  * * *

  There are whispers up and down the goal line that some freshman puked in the locker room while getting dressed. I think I might have gotten a whiff from the kid next to me, but I don’t dare look at him to see if he’s nervous or pale. I keep my facemask pointed at the ice as we skate through the warm-up.

  If he is the puker, it works for him. He’s the only one who beats me back to the line.

  “Nice, dude,” he says, knocking my glove with his.

  I make the mistake of looking up.

  “Whoa,” he says. “You’re not a dude.” He sounds impressed, but he still backs away. On the next whistle, he returns to the line three players down from me, whispering to his buddies. Ugh, at least attempt subtlety, boys.

  By the time warm-ups are finished, there’s so much empty ice around me that I could swing my stick in a circle and not hit anyone. Even though I’d like to. Hope Puke Breath is making you all gag.

  I’m here to make the team, not make friends. I focus on skating, on digging hard into each stride. On battling for every puck and every piece of real estate in front of the net. If I’d played like this on my old team, I would have had to kick my own ass for being a puck hog. But it seems to be the norm here in Boy Land. And when in Rome, right? Besides, if they’re all going to stare at me, might as well give them something to see. Hopefully, Coach Henson sees me, too.

  When Coach calls us in for a water break, there’s a four-foot radius around me, like I’m contagious. The only one who breaks it is Megan, who brings me a fresh water bottle when I drain mine. I’m trying hard not to look at the cluster at the opposite end of the bench. Sucks that I’m the odd woman out, but if I make the team, they’ll get used to me.

  Megan gives me a reassuring tap on my helmet and takes a water bottle to her stepdad. I hear her say, quite loudly, “Did you see Manning on that back-check?”

  “Nice wheels,” he replies. My heart soars.

  I have to admit, it’s the best I’ve ever played. I’m so high I don’t know if my skates will ever hit ice again.

  The real test is still to come. Our first tryout was a ninety-minute practice ending at nine. Round two is at 5:00 tomorrow morning.

  After practice, I attempt a Superman-fast change of clothes in my phone-booth-slash-broom-closet. I plan on being the first one out of the rink so I don’t have to face any more of the glares I got on the ice.

  I know, I know. I skated like the bomb tonight. I should hold my head up and walk out of here like I own the place. But when you’re The Girl, one good skate doesn’t earn you balls.

  When I hustle out of my broom closet, Megan is leaning against the concrete wall. She pushes herself off and hands me a Gatorade. “Hydrate,” she says. “Straight to bed.”

  “Yes, Coach.” I open the Gatorade and chug half of it while Megan grins with pride. “So,” I say, shouldering my bag, “any strategy for the morning?”

  “It’s going to hurt,” she says. “Just survive it.”

  Sounds like a good plan.

  6

  I tiptoe in the back door, through the laundry room, to avoid questions about where I’ve been and if I remembered to put gas in Mom’s car after borrowing it. It’s well before curfew, so as long as I make enough noise upstairs to alert my parents to my presence, there’s no reason for them to leave their Twin Peaks reruns to check for me.

  After easing the squeaky back door shut, I race up the stairs and into a hot shower. Wolf down a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. Guzzle enough water to pee lemonade-yellow … but not so much that I’ll have to do so in the middle of the night. Into bed by ten.

  Up at four. The alarm on my phone is painful enough, and I haven’t even hit the ice yet.

  Hot chocolate and another peanut butter sandwich for breakfast on the way to the rink. Five-minute jog around the pitch-black parking lot to burn off the lactic acid in my quads. Fortunately, don’t get eaten by a moose. Then I push the wheely mop bucket and the janitor’s cart against the wall of my closet so I have room to stretch my legs before getting dressed. I laid my gear out before bed, so at least it’s dry. There is nothing worse than cold, clammy gear at five in the morning. I’d rather get eaten by the moose.

  Last item on my to-do list: AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” at full blast in my earbuds. Now I’m awake.

  The small windows over the bleachers are pitch-black. Not even a thin line of light breaking the eastern horizon. Puffs of steam leak from my facemask as I skate to the bench to see what torture Coach has planned for this morning.

  Megan huddles in a puffy coat and knit hat behind Coach, leaning her chin on his jacketed shoulder. I think she’s trying to prove she’s hardcore hockey by being here, but her sleepy eyes droop as she follows the drill Coach is drawing out on the posi board. When he sets his travel coffee mug on the bench, she clutches it in her mittened hands. She sniffs it warily, then takes a gulp. Her eyes go big and she squeaks. Coach laughs, hands her a Gatorade bottle and nudges her shoulder until she laughs, too. Feeling intrusive, I coast to the far end of the bench and set my water bottle on the boards. Pretend to stretch out until Coach’s whistle brings us to center ice.

  Coach gives the patented speech that all head coaches buy off the internet and practice in front of their mirrors. “This is where we separate the men from the boys. If you want to make this team, you will give me 110 percent for the next ninety minutes. It is third period of a tied game, men. Can you dig deep when it hurts? Can you rise above the pain?”

  Can you not be a sports cliché?

  Minute 1: I’m feeling good. Ready to go.

  Minute 15: OK, yeah, I skated hard yesterday. I feel that now.

  Minute 30: There it is — tired.

  Minute 45: Halfway. Halfway there.

  Minute 60: Quads screaming. Feet aching. Mind numb. But I wasn’t the first puker. I swallowed it down and kept my feet under me.

  Minute 75: Keep your feet moving. Keep your feet moving. Fall. Polish the ice with my ass. Get up. Keep your feet moving.

  Minute 80: Coach is a sadistic, fucking asshole.

  Minute 85: There’s no way that clock is working properly.

  Minute 90: It doesn’t stop.

  That’s right. He keeps going. You can feel the air whoosh out of the rink when thirty-two skaters realize that practice is not ending when he said it would.

  We keep skating. I consider screaming that my name is Mike Eruzione and I play for the United States of America to see if that will make it stop. But I don’t have enough breath.

  We’re running a forecheck and everyone’s sluggish and tired. Including me. No one’s skating the puck, they’re dishing ugly passes or dumping the puck in hopes of an opportunity to skate backwards for a change. Clearing the zone with long shots that would never fly in a game. Coach has used every four-letter word in the book to express his displeasure. The defense are passing back and forth behind the net, arguing about who has to start the breakout, when I get sick of their crap.

  On my girls’ team, Coach taught us, when you’re tired, when you’re beat, you touch a teammate. God only knows what these guys would make of that. But it always worked. You may not have breath, but you all don’t have breath together. A tap of the stick on a shin guard, a gloved fist bump. It gives you that extra push to keep going. Brie and I used to tap our helmets together when we were too gassed to tell each other “good shift.”

  I have no intention of touching any one of these guys. But I look to the bench and I see Megan. She’s holding her s
tepdad’s clipboard and leaning one foot against the boards, her elbows on her knees. Her eyes are on me, waiting for me to live up to her expectations, to follow the trail she blazed.

  I wonder what Jack thinks about when he’s swimming, when he’s surrounded by water and his own thoughts.

  He thinks about his sport. He focuses on his stroke, his pace. He wills his muscles to stay in rhythm, to push through the numb feeling.

  My legs are weak, but when I tell my knees to lift, they wobble into obedience. I accelerate and charge the defenseman with the puck. He hesitates, not expecting me to challenge their breakout attempt. But I’m done waiting on him. Waiting on any of these boys. They may be able to afford complacency, but I am fully aware that The Girl will never get a day off. Not if I want to make this team.

  I have to make this team. Unlike these guys, I have no other options.

  I swoop behind the net. The D fumbles his sweep up the boards and I beat him to it because I am the only person on this rink whose feet are still in motion. Guarding the puck with my body, I curl back toward the goal. My shot tips off the goalie’s blocker and into the crease. I rebound my own shot and freeze for a split second with the puck at the tip of my blade. Because you always have more time than you think you do. My hesitation pays off, and the goalie’s sideways momentum carries him an inch too far. I flip the puck at the empty space where his left shoulder was a split second before.

  I’m pushed to the ice by a defenseman, but it’s too late to be anything but a gesture. My puck already sits on the ice, well behind the goal line.

  “You were supposed to pressure the puck.” The captain, Daniel, stands over me.

  I have too much adrenaline from scoring to check my mouth. “You were supposed to play defense,” I answer. Yeah, maybe it was a dick move to push that far with not only a shot but a rebound. But it’s not my fault the D get lazy when they’re tired.