Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  I’m off balance, still getting to my feet, when he cross-checks my shoulder again. My feet skitter and my stick flails but I don’t fall. He cross-checks my shoulder a third time, despite the short blast from the assistant coach’s whistle.

  From behind his plexiglass facemask, Daniel aims a glare that would wither anyone who didn’t just score off her own rebound. I outskated him and he knows it. I set my face and stare him down, willing my tired legs to hold strong if he pressures me again.

  Coach Henson blows his whistle. “Leave it, Manning.”

  I don’t unclench — I’d bet my roster spot Daniel’s still looking to knock me on my ass. It’s bullshit that Coach doesn’t call him out. But there’s no use arguing my case against the veteran captain of the team. I can’t look like a troublemaker. With a strong C-cut, I push back from Daniel.

  “To the goal line, boys. We’ll finish up with a little skate,” Coach hollers. I hustle to the goal line. The boys around me groan as they coast to a stop. This is going to hurt. We all know it. Coach knows it. This is the separate-the-men-from-the-boys part.

  Lucky for me, I’m all girl.

  The whistle sends us skating, over and over again. Sweat gushes out of me, dripping into my eyes. I blink it away and pretend I’m in a swimming pool, submerged in the water. I block out the sounds and the motions around me. Concentrate on the muscle contractions that will push me forward. Remind myself not to get sloppy because I’m tired. Knees low. Don’t swing your arms to the side. Extend your stride. Flick your ankle. I think I’d be a good swimmer after all.

  I don’t pay attention to the other skaters until I realize I’ve crossed the finish line before almost all of them.

  Coach circles us at center ice. “Thank you for coming out, gentlemen. I will post the varsity roster on my office door Monday morning, fifteen minutes before the first bell. If you make varsity, you will attend team meeting Monday afternoon and start practice the following evening. Freshmen and sophomores, if you do not make varsity, check Coach Winters’s classroom door for the JV roster and practice schedule. Dismissed.”

  My legs barely get me off the ice and into my broom closet. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I collapse on the dirty rubber floor.

  And that’s when I finally puke.

  7

  Maybe it’s the rebellion of trying out for the boys’ team behind my parents’ backs. Maybe it’s the proximity to apes, both at bantams and at tryouts, that makes me desperate to speak to an evolved male.

  Maybe it’s the braids. I did a modified version of my new hockey ’do this morning because I couldn’t sleep wondering about the roster. I texted Brie a picture and she told me to F off because I woke her up. But she agreed they’re cute.

  Anyway, when I see Jack in the school parking lot, hopping out of the world’s oldest Jeep Wagoneer, I don’t slow my gait in hopes that he’ll catch up to me. I don’t converse loudly with the nearest acquaintance so that he’ll notice me.

  Obviously, what I do is pat my braids to make sure I don’t have any tufts sticking out.

  And then I walk right up to him. At which point it occurs to me that I have no clue if Jack has a girlfriend. Even if he does, I’m perfectly within my rights to say hello to a classmate. Talking is fine. I just can’t throw myself onto his lips. Bummer.

  I’m nearly to his car when I realize I don’t have a conversation starter. I am seconds away from standing like a statue in front of Jack Ray. Unless I blurt out something about the weather or comment that his beat-up old Wagoneer looks nice. Which would kill any chance of coming off as clever or interesting. But if I turn around and he sees me walking away, he’ll wonder why I was ten feet from his car and didn’t say hi. Or — worse — he’ll realize that I turned around because I have a crush on him and I’m a big huge wuss.

  If I’m brave enough to take a hit from Daniel Maclane, I’m brave enough to initiate a conversation with Jack Ray.

  Right?

  He looks up and sees me.

  “Hi, Jack,” I say. And that’s as far as I get. Because those deep, dark eyes paralyze my larynx. And because it turns out he’s on the phone.

  He smiles and holds up a finger to me. “OK, Mom. I got it. I’ll call you then. OK. OK, I gotta go.” He ducks his chin to the side and lowers his voice. “I love you, too, Mom. Bye.”

  Oh, my God, he just got cuter.

  His cheeks are pink and I doubt it’s from the unseasonably warm morning sun. “Hey, Mich. Sorry about that. It’s impossible to get off the phone with her.”

  I can’t help smiling at him.

  “What’s your first class?” he asks. “I’ll walk you.”

  “World history. But I’m not headed there yet. I actually have to …” I shift my backpack and check out the color of the parking lot asphalt. Dirty gray with stringy blue bubblegum. “Um … I tried out. For the guys’ team. This weekend. And Coach is posting the roster on his door this morning.” I peek at Jack’s face to see if his judgment matches that of the guys at tryouts.

  Jack’s eyes light up. “Superwoman!” He slams his car door shut and holds his hand up for a high five. I answer with a tap, but instead of dropping his hand, he grabs mine and heads in the direction of the school. “How can you stand waiting? Let’s go!”

  I laugh and let him tug on my hand. Because I like it. A lot. I curl my fingers around his. “The thing is, I’m not sure I want you to see me puke if I make it or cry if I don’t.”

  He squeezes harder and pulls me toward the school entrance. “I’m washable, I swear. Feel free to puke.”

  HE DOESN’T LET GO OF MY HAND. All the way to Coach’s office. I feel him look at me twice but I don’t know what to do if I look back at him, so instead I picture the roster hanging on Coach’s door. I’ll never know exactly which it is that’s making my stomach do flips this morning.

  It’s almost first bell by the time we arrive. There’s a sheet of white paper taped to the middle of Coach’s door, and there are already three guys standing around it. I shrink back. There’s no way I will do this in front of my competition.

  “Come on,” Jack urges.

  One of the boys rears back and punches the wall next to Coach’s door. It’s that indestructible concrete-type material, so it doesn’t give, but he continues to emit a low growl as he charges down the hallway. One of his friends follows, his head hanging low.

  Jack’s arm is flung out in front of me, holding me back. Like I was going to breeze on up to the door while the kid’s fist was still clenched. I raise my eyebrows at Jack and he grins sheepishly as he lowers his arm.

  “Just in case the hockey girl needs backup from a swimmer,” he says. “We’re tougher than we look.”

  Just. Adorable. How does he do it?

  The last boy remains at Coach’s door, scanning the list until a slow smile spreads over his face. After sneaking a peek at his retreating friends, he runs off in the opposite direction.

  “All clear now?” Jack asks.

  I nod. “That had to hurt like hell. I can’t believe he didn’t break something.”

  “Maybe he did. My X-ray vision isn’t working this morning.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Thank goodness.”

  He gives me a new grin, and this one sends tingles from the crown of my braids all the way through my toes. Then he nudges me toward the list, staying back about ten feet himself.

  I walk up to the door, holding my breath. The list is in alphabetical order. My eyes slide through the last names. B, C, G, G, J …

  The door opens. Coach Henson aims a grumpy look at me. “In my office, Manning.”

  Like he knew I was there. Apparently, his X-ray vision works just fine.

  Oh, gross.

  I glance over at Jack and we share a shrug. “Yes?” he mouths.

  “Wait a sec, Coach,” I say. “I didn’t get a ch
ance to look.”

  His index finger jabs the middle of the roster. Manning, Michigan, F.

  I manage to swallow my laugh but I can’t hide my grin. I did it. I got my hockey season back.

  “Hustle, Manning.” Coach disappears into his office, leaving the door open.

  As I follow him inside, I aim a quick thumbs-up at Jack. His split-second fist-pump victory dance is the best thing I’ve ever seen.

  Coach plops into his swivel chair and it bounces, thumping several times. “I can’t not take you, Manning. You were easily in the top five at tryouts. You earned your spot. But I’m not happy about it.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry? Or, I mean, I …” … have no clue how to respond to that. Thanks for feeling like you had to put me on your team even though you don’t want me?

  There’s a picture of Megan on his desk, standing in front of a woman who has to be her mom. She’s Megan in twenty-five years. She has her arms around Megan and they’re both laughing for the camera. I wonder if Coach was “not happy” when we put Megan on our team.

  “You will change in a separate restroom.”

  “Of course.” Ew. Seriously? He even thought …???

  “You’ll sit in the front seat of the bus.”

  “OK.” Will probably smell better there.

  “You will not” — he waves a hand in the air — “date, or get involved with, whatever. No inappropriate interactions with any of the members of my team.”

  Excuse me? I am a member of his team. And what does he think I am, some puck-muff?

  “I tried out for the team because I want to play hockey. Not date hockey players.” I try to channel Brie’s my-daddy-the-lawyer attitude. “I’m sure my parents will feel better knowing that the entire team will be held to such high standards.”

  He frowns. The first bell rings. He waves a hand toward the door.

  “I set high academic standards as well. Get to class. I’ll see you at team meeting this afternoon.”

  High academic standards, my butt. Cherrie tutored half the guys last year in remedial math. But he’s got one thing right. I’ll be at team meeting this afternoon.

  I have a team.

  8

  I’m the first one at team meeting. Partly because I’m never late anywhere. And partly because the pressure is on to be the Perfect Rookie. Something tells me Henson would jump at any excuse to chop me.

  Meeting is in a small classroom, lined with four long tables facing a wall taken up entirely by a huge whiteboard. I choose the table at the front of the “bus,” just to be safe. But in the interest of not getting teased, I leave my note-taking implements in my backpack. For now.

  They slump in. My new teammates.

  “Uh, we got a meeting in here,” one of the guys says.

  I turn in my seat. His hat is on backward, barely controlling clumps of wavy brown hair. He’s got like three layers of shirts on, and yet I can still see his boxer waistband peeking out.

  Yeah, I think I’ll be able to follow Coach’s “no dating” rule just fine.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Team manager,” his friend hisses. I don’t know how they could mistake my long, straight brown hair for Megan’s blond waves. But whatever. When I knock his butt into next week at practice, he’ll remember me.

  Slowly, the room fills up. Except for my table. I stay facing forward, listening to the scraping of chairs and the rustle of clothes behind me.

  “Dude, the chick made it,” someone whispers.

  “I can’t wait to tell Max he got cut for a girl,” another whispers back.

  I jump as a short, skinny kid plops into the chair next to me. It’s the starting goalie. He’s a junior, too, a Canadian transplant who solidly backed the team after he moved here last fall. He pulls his black knit beanie off and strands of choppy sandy hair zing straight up with static electricity.

  “Avery Gardiner,” he says, holding his hand out to me.

  “Michigan Manning.”

  “So you must be from California.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Gardiner.” We both look up. Daniel Maclane stands in front of Avery, his arms crossed. Again, I wonder how Coach could ever think I’d be tempted to have “inappropriate interactions” with his team. Daniel’s dirt-brown hair could use a cut, his stubbly chin could use a shave and his T-shirt could use an iron. I’ll give Brie this: Daniel Maclane looked a lot sharper when he lived by her standards.

  He makes eye contact with Avery and points to the back of the room. “Move. Go sit next to Breaker.”

  “Aw, man, he smells bad.” But Avery gets up and moves anyway. “Nice to meet you, Michigan,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Daniel shoots me a quick frown before following his goalie to the tables behind me. Sure, pretend you didn’t date my best friend for three months last year. Pretend we didn’t double-date like half a dozen times. Pretend we didn’t play mites and squirts together. What kind of captain acts like that?

  What kind of captain moves six hours away and leaves her best friend to sit alone at the front of the room?

  Stop that, Michigan. You earned that A. Act like it.

  Coach strides to the whiteboard. His presence in the room has the same effect as pushing a mute button. “Gentlemen! Congratulations on making my varsity team, men.” He hesitates a split second as his eyes land on me but doesn’t amend his word choice. He hands a cardboard box to Daniel. “Phones. Toss ’em in.” Daniel walks the aisles, collecting each player’s phone. He stops in front of me last. I set my phone in the box. The sequined Red Wings case looks especially garish on top of a pile of black, blue and even camo-colored phones.

  Coach hands Daniel a heavy ring of keys. “Put that in my office. You’ll get ’em back after the meeting, boys. For the next two hours, I own every cell of your brain.”

  When Daniel returns, his new job is to pass out a billion sheets of paper to each guy. Game schedule, practice schedule, team fees, at least five sheets for our parents to sign to acknowledge that hockey is not chess and there will be checking involved.

  And a long list of team rules.

  “Each member of the team will dress appropriately for home games,” Coach says. “We do not show up to the rink looking like hobos. Hair combed. No hat. Long-sleeved collared shirt with buttons. Slacks without wrinkles. And a tie. Every single” — he fixes me with a glare — “member of this team will wear a tie to the rink for home games.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Whatever. I’ll bum one from Trent. Like Coach’s poor fashion sense is going to chase me off.

  “There is no drinking in season. Do I need to repeat that? There is no drinking in season. If I find out that you have been drinking — and yes, I do know how to use Instagram — you’ll be benched. Even cut, if I think that’s warranted. Same goes for drug use of any kind.”

  He points at me. “Stand up, Manning.”

  My muscles stall, hoping he’ll change his mind. Coach glares at me, daring me to disobey and be The Girl who got cut six hours after making the team.

  I stand.

  “Turn and face the room.”

  I confront my new team. Every single one of them is smart enough to hold a poker face.

  “This is a girl. She’s on the team this year. There will be no relations with her. I don’t care who you crush on at this school. Who you make out with in the library or give your letter jacket to. But it will not be this girl. Any questions?”

  One of the seniors, a known man-whore, raises his hand. “What if I accidentally fall and catch myself on her boo —”

  “I’m not joking, Breaker. Do not test me on this, boys.”

  I’ll knee your balls into your throat is what will happen. My face is burning with embarrassment but I still aim a glare in his direction.

  Without looking at me, Coach says, “Sit, Mann
ing.”

  Happily.

  “Good puppy,” Daniel hisses somewhere behind me. The entire room stifles laughs. Coach ignores them, flipping to the page that details his “high academic standards.”

  Thus concludes the single most humiliating moment of my life.

  * * *

  The meeting runs over two hours between Coach’s rules and a long chalk talk to get us ready for tomorrow’s practice. I’m starving and I’ve got loads of homework that has to get done tonight because I’ll be juggling bantam practice with my own tomorrow night. And for the next four months.

  Of course, Daniel gives my phone back last so I have to wait around while he empties the rest of the box. The other guys slump or strut or stumble out of the room and I get that deliberate don’t-look-at-the-chick feeling from every one of them. Fine, so they need to go gossip among themselves. I’m sure after one or two practices, it’ll stop being a big deal that the person next to them on the bench is wearing a sports bra.

  Daniel hands my phone back with a smirk. I snatch it and run out of the room, expecting a million “where have you been” texts from Mom. I’ll call her while I jog home.

  But instead of a list of Mom texts, there is a topless, string-bikinied Playboy-type model on my screen. My new wallpaper has an airbrushed bikini region, a fake tan, and wow — with an endowment like that, it’s no wonder she can’t find a bra that fits.

  Classy, Daniel. What a born leader and a role model for all young men. If he really wanted to scare me off the team he’d have sent a picture of Coach in that — ew. I shake the image out of my head. Just, no.

  The house smells like pizza. My stomach rumbles as I step inside.

  “Where have you been?” Mom demands. “I’ve been calling you for hours.”

  “I’m sorry, my phone is all messed up.” Please do not ask to see it.

  “And it didn’t occur to you to let me know?”

  “I’m sorry, I would have called if I thought you were worried.”

  “Set the table, please.”

  I pass around the plastic placemats and paper napkins. Pull a handful of forks from the drawer for the iceberg lettuce that the pizza joint calls a salad.