Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  “Get your brother, please.”

  “Trenton!” I holler.

  Mom frowns. “I could have done that.”

  But she didn’t.

  Trent slides into home plate. “Dibs on meat-lovers’!”

  “You don’t get it all.” I block his path to the box with my hip. He digs in. I dig in harder. Dad swipes the box up over our heads.

  “I got some stuff you guys have to sign,” I say, reaching for a slice of plain cheese. I like it better than meat-lovers’; I just fight with Trent because I can.

  “What’d you do?” Mom whips her head up from her phone, ready to throw down some grounding.

  “Geez, nothing. It’s for hockey.”

  Dad swallows fast and leans forward eagerly. “They reinstate your team?”

  “No. I, uh” — I sneak a glance at Trent — “I made the guys’ team instead.”

  “Whoa!” Trent drops his pizza back on the plate. “Seriously? That’s awesome.” He holds a greasy hand up for a high five.

  Braver, I smile and slap his hand. “It is awesome. Thanks.”

  “Mich! Wow! Good job!” Dad says, using more exclamation points than in the rest of his life combined. “Any of the other girls make it?”

  “No. I was the only one who tried out.”

  “How’s the rest of the team look? When do you start practices? You’ll have to get me a copy of the game schedule so I can arrange my shifts around it. This is great, kid.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ve got the schedule in my bag.”

  Mom’s mouth is puckered to one side. “You should have talked to us about this.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. I don’t like this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are five foot six. One hundred twenty-five pounds. They’re going to knock you down and run you over.”

  “I was one of the fastest skaters at tryouts. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Dad humphs with a mouthful of pizza. Translation: I’m supposed to reprimand you for sassing your mom.

  “Well, someone’s eventually going to catch you,” Mom persists. “And it’s going to hurt.”

  “Mich isn’t that easy to push around, Mom,” Trent says. “I’ve got her trained up right.”

  “You’re thirteen. She’ll have eighteen-year-old boys hitting her. And what are you going to do about locker rooms? I will not have you traveling all night on a bus with twenty boys.”

  “And three coaches,” I remind her. “Oh, my God, Mom. I’m not going to share showers with those guys. Geez.” I retrieve my backpack from the hallway and bring my stack of papers to the table.

  “Here’s the schedule. I need you guys to sign these.”

  Mom won’t take the stack. She stares at it like I rubbed it around the inside of Trent’s hockey bag. I hand it to Dad, who leafs through. “Got a pen?”

  I get him one from the junk drawer. He signs the permission forms. Mom doesn’t say another word.

  * * *

  My fingers have barely managed to curl around my toothbrush when Trent bursts into the bathroom.

  “Mine!” he hollers.

  “Only if you fight me for it.”

  He takes two steps from the doorway of the bathroom and slams into me. I grip the pedestal sink as my knees buckle under me. “Asswipe!”

  “You knew I was coming.”

  “So? I didn’t think you were going to slam into me.”

  He backs up to the doorway again. “Warning, Mich. I’m going to slam into you.”

  “What? Get out, you twerp!”

  “Bend your knees and drop your weight because I’m going to slam into you.”

  I barely have time to obey, clenching tight, before he throws his body into mine again. I fly into the sink but at least this time I’m not under it.

  “Absorb the hit,” Trent says, backing up into the doorway again. “You know I’m coming. Meet me.”

  There’s no time to argue — he’s charging me again. I drop my weight and instinctively lead with my shoulder. We collide, shoulder to shoulder.

  “Now keep your feet moving,” Trent grits out. We both use our feet to push against the other.

  “OK, release,” he pants.

  We stumble back and regain our balance, breathing hard.

  “You’ll survive,” he says. “But you are gonna hurt this time tomorrow night.”

  * * *

  French worksheet is due Wednesday. I think I can dash it off between practices tomorrow night. I can skim my chemistry reading at lunch tomorrow. But I have to finish my world history essay tonight because it’s due first thing Wednesday morning. So of course it’s the one subject my mind refuses to focus on.

  A creak from my bedroom doorway startles me. Mom leans against the frame, her arms crossed. She’s in her comfy clothes: long, open gray sweater over a plain white T-shirt and drawstring sweats. She’s taken off her work makeup, which always makes her look more tired than the clock says. Tonight she’s looking like midnight.

  “Your grades will not drop,” she says.

  I nod but say, “No.”

  “You made a commitment to Trent’s team.”

  “I’m keeping it. I’ll miss it when practices or games overlap, but otherwise I’m still coaching.”

  She nods and then comes into the room, sitting on the end of my bed. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  Suddenly, world history seems like the lesser of two evils. “And I don’t understand why you can’t understand. I love hockey. I miss it. All my friends are off doing new things, and hockey is all I have.”

  “No, it’s not. You could make new friends. Join new clubs, learn new things. Get a job.”

  “Make new friends. Like it doesn’t matter that my old ones have changed. Just get new ones.”

  “I’m not saying that. Maybe you show up and support your old friends at their new games.”

  “Maybe they show up to my games.”

  “So what, then you win? You picked the biggest new thing? It’s not a competition, Michigan.”

  “Why is being competitive so bad?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I just don’t understand it. Just be happy. Get good grades, find something you enjoy, do it.”

  “I am. I did. Be happy yourself.” And now she looks like two a.m. Like an all-nighter spent cramming for an exam she’ll never ace.

  She pushes grades because she slacked in high school. She thought she was big shit, leaving the U.P. for community college. But she couldn’t hack it. She ended up back here, working long hours as a secretary for the local court system. She knows — and I know — that if she’d buckled down and done better in school, shot higher with her goals, that she could have had a chance at more.

  But I think that’s what I’m doing. And she thinks that’s what I’m missing.

  I hold up my world history textbook. “I still have work to do.”

  It’s the ace. She won’t mess with homework. “OK. I love you, honey. Get to bed at a reasonable hour.”

  “Yep. Love you, too, Mom.”

  She stands and leaves my room and I throw myself into ancient Chinese inventions.

  9

  “Hey, Wayne Gretzky!” Jack leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine. The faint scent of chlorine tickles my nose.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you see the resemblance?”

  “OK. How ’bout: Hey, Kendall Coyne. What’s up, Amanda Kessel? How are the Lamoureux twins today? OK … that last one did not come out right. I meant that in a strictly hockey sense.”

  A giggle escapes my throat. “Are you for real?”

  “I studied up. Don’t want to be a hockey dunce when I come to your first game
.”

  I shut my locker and lean against it, facing him. “Thank you.”

  He tilts his chin. “Thank me for what?”

  “For being the only person who seems truly psyched for me.”

  His demeanor changes instantly, his shoulders softening. “Seriously? I mean, hockey’s your thing. Who wouldn’t be psyched for you?”

  I think he actually wants to know. “My mom’s not too happy with me. And my dad thinks it’s cool but since my mom is being weird, he’s toned down his excitement. And Brie.” I exhale. “Brie has barely spoken two words to me since she left. When I texted her that I made the team, her response was that she couldn’t believe I tried out without telling her first.”

  “Aw, she’s just mad that you made the team and she didn’t get a chance to prove she could make it, too.”

  I cock my head. “Do you know Brie? I mean, have you guys ever spoken?”

  “Not really. Had a class or two with her.”

  “Because you pretty much nailed her.” Which is not a nice thing for a best friend to admit.

  “They weren’t that kind of class.” He grins and elbows me until I laugh with him.

  “Speaking of class. I should probably go to mine,” I say. I’m pretty sure there’s less distance between us than there was when I first shut my locker and leaned against it. In fact, there seems to be less distance between us than there was only a moment ago. My weight is on the front of my toes, as if the earth is tilting toward Jack.

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Neither one of us moves. Unless you count my racing heart, my tumbling stomach and my spinning brain.

  “World history?” he asks.

  I nod. “You?”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  A smile tugs at my lips even as I nod.

  “Freshman English.”

  “What?!”

  “It turns out I forgot to take it freshman year. It didn’t fit in my schedule. And when I met with my adviser to make sure I had all my grad requirements for this year, she realized I’d slipped through the cracks. I took all the upper-level English requirements but they won’t let me graduate without it.”

  “Oh, my gosh. So you’re the only senior in a roomful of fifteen-year-olds?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, that’s so painful.”

  The first bell rings, interrupting what could have been a nice day.

  I push off from the row of lockers.

  “Hey, Hilary Knight?”

  I grin. Knighter’s my favorite. “Wow. You have been studying.”

  He holds out his arms. “Hilary Knight. Gold medalist, Olympian three times over, has played pro with both the National Women’s Hockey League and the Canadian Women’s Hockey League. And” — he points at me — “she started out on a boys’ team.”

  She did. And she survived. I will, too.

  The warning bell sounds.

  “Not bad, Michael Phelps.”

  He shakes his head. “Too easy.”

  “Ian Thorpe?”

  “Partial credit.”

  “Nathan Adrian.”

  I relish the stunned look on his face. I shrug. “I always watch the swimming. They have nice arms.”

  “Oh, do they?” He grins. My knees contemplate buckling.

  The hall is nearly empty now. I back away toward the Social Sciences wing, preparing to sprint to beat the tardy bell.

  “Michigan?”

  I lock eyes with him.

  “Have lunch with me.”

  YES. TODAY AND EVERY DAY. But then my heart slumps as I remember my new in-season schedule. “I have to study over lunch.”

  “I chew really quietly. I promise.”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  Enough of tryouts and chalk talks. Hockey season starts tonight, at my first practice with the Owl River High School varsity hockey team.

  I drop my gear in the broom closet and strip off my warm-up jacket before heading outside for conditioning with the team. I used to wear my spandex for off-ice conditioning; my whole team did. Then we’d just throw our gear on over it for practice. But even though I’ll be miserably hot, I keep my baggy sweats and hoodie on. I’m assuming spandex goes against Coach’s Rules for The Girl.

  Daniel leads us on a short jog around the park next to the rink. At least a third of the guys are huffing and puffing. I’m breathing easily. Score one for The Girl.

  Back in the rink lobby, we stretch out, following Daniel’s lead through standard hamstring, quad, glute and lower-back stretches. He takes us through an ab series, but it’s nothing impressive. Just crunch variations that inspire several poorly made claims about the six-packs the boys think they’ll get out of it.

  I realize the rest of the team, including the other rookies, are all in matching team T-shirts. I’m the only one wearing an Owl River High School Girls’ Hockey hoodie. Complete with pink cursive lettering, which probably isn’t winning me any points right now. In fact, a lot of the guys are also sporting stiff new ball caps with Owl River Hockey on the front. I’m kind of disappointed that I got left out of the new swag.

  And it seems that’s not all I got left out of.

  As we crunch, Daniel weaves around our supine bodies. He pauses to tap one of the rookies on the abs with his sneaker. “Winston! There’s my NHL 17 champ. Mad gamer skills last night. Next time, you’re on my team.”

  “Awesome, man. Can’t wait.”

  “Soon. We’ll do another team bonding night next week.”

  As Daniel walks away, the freshman’s buddy elbows him. “Nice, dude.”

  Winston beams like the prom queen asked for his number. I roll my eyes. It hurts a little that I got left out of whatever team thing happened last night, but it’s not like I’d risk bonding with this team anyway.

  If nothing else, it saves me from having to kiss up to Daniel.

  * * *

  The first hit hurts.

  The second hurts more.

  By the third I’m numb.

  And so it goes.

  Welcome to the team. The boys are checking on drills that have nothing to do with hitting. As the assistant coach of a bantam team, I am well aware that a boys’ hockey practice does not revolve around hitting one’s own teammates repeatedly.

  I can’t evade them, can’t wuss out of the hits, or they’ll just make it worse on me. I have to take it like a human punching bag. Once they see that I can handle myself out here, they’ll back off. They’re testing me, that’s all.

  I slump against the boards between drills, my ribs and shoulders already sore only halfway through practice. My trembling hands spill water all over my chin. Megan looks up from the penalty box, where a textbook sits open in front of her. She gives me a smile, but her teeth are gritted and her jaw is tight. Trent sits next to her, very obviously not paying attention to his own homework. My parents refused to make separate trips to the rink, so we now live here every evening until both our practices are over. I don’t think it’s a hardship on Trent. He looked pretty happy when he found out he gets to “study” with Megan during my practice.

  “Bounty, baby!” The upperclassmen are all grouped at the other end of the bench for a water break. William Breaker bumps fists with Daniel in my peripheral vision. “I’m at three. Anyone beat that? No? Looks like Daniel’s going to be buying my beer this weekend.”

  That’s all it is with these guys. Smack talk and beer.

  “No way,” Vaughn says. “Watch this. I’m going to nail her twice next shift. I call Pabst, Daniel.”

  I freeze. Strain my ears in their direction. But after some hooting, they break up and we head to the next small-ice game.

  Where Vaughn hits me twice in the first shift.

  To be fair, the first one was half-assed, just an elbow graze. But those fuckers
have a contest going for who can hit me the most. Cheap beer to the winner.

  I take my place in line, fuming as I wait for my next shift. For my next beating.

  A small white blur bounces off my facemask. I flick my head, but it’s just a balled-up piece of paper that falls to the ice. I pick it up and cock my arm to toss it on the bench when Trent waves his arms at me from the penalty box. I frown at him. He’s going to cost me sprints or push-ups if Coach catches him distracting me on the ice.

  Trent points at the paper, mouthing, “Open it.” I glance around to make sure I’m not being studied. I don’t care what these guys think, but I don’t want to get called out by a coach. Then I drop to my knee and fiddle with my skate lace while I unfold the paper against my white jersey.

  HIT BACK!

  I look up at Trent. He opens his arms and gives me an exasperated “duh!”

  I’ve never thrown a hit. I can shoulder a girl to the boards, hold her in place, even bulldoze her out of the crease if need be. But I’ve never actually lined up and hit another player. And I’ve played a non-checking game for so long that I don’t even see the opportunities to hit out here. My instinct is always for the puck, skating and angling instead.

  Coach blows the whistle and it’s my turn again. I straighten up. Did I really think I was going to join the boys’ team and never have to throw a hit? Might as well learn now, before I get into a game situation.

  It’s going to have to be a big one. Shock and awe.

  I skate to the line, ready to chase the puck into the zone. I’m lined up against Daniel.

  “Don’t worry, Manning,” he says, smirking. “I’ll go easy on you.”

  Perfect. My first target.

  Coach dumps the puck and we sprint for it. At the last moment, I hold back, letting Daniel win the puck in the corner. “Not even a challenge,” he says, laughing as he turns to look for his winger.

  Bounty. I let it all spew forward: the humiliation of Coach’s “this is a girl” speech, the anger at Assmont for taking my real team away, the cold shoulders and hot egos of these apes.