Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  Smash. My hit lifts Daniel off his feet. I slam his torso into the boards, and the tall plexiglass panes rattle in their metal stays. Daniel whoofs as the air leaves him and his stick clatters to the ice.

  As he slithers down the boards, I pick up the puck and lazily slide it up to my waiting winger.

  “You’re right,” I said. “That was easy on me.”

  It’s the last hit thrown all practice.

  10

  It’s our second lunch date. In reality, I’m eating a sandwich I packed at home and we’re in the cafeteria, so it’s not really a date. But considering the amount of time I spent choosing a T-shirt this morning and contemplating sandwiches — obviously not something smelly like tuna or that will glue my jaws shut like peanut butter; I finally went with apple and cheddar — this so counts as a date.

  “I’m blown away by how much skinny guys eat,” I say, eyeing Jack’s lunch.

  He looks hurt. “I better not be skinny. I got a lot of season left.”

  “After all this” — I gesture to the table in front of him — “I think you’ll be OK.” He has two turkey sandwiches, an apple, two granola bars, a yogurt and a packet of almond butter. Plus a thirty-two-ounce Gatorade.

  “Two practices a day,” he says. “Total yardage about seventy-five hundred right now.”

  I’m trying to remember how many yards in a mile. “That sounds like a lot?”

  “Season hasn’t even started yet. I’ll get up to ten thousand before taper in the spring. And I’ll lose about thirty pounds before then.”

  My jaw drops. “You do this every year?”

  “Yep. I have two sections in my closet. Clothes that fit during season, clothes I can wear out of season. Although I’m never truly off-season.”

  I shake my head. “That’s beyond dedication — Ack!” Searing hot liquid slides down my neck and back. I jump to my feet and squirm, but it’s too late. I’m soaked.

  Jack is on his feet as well. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, just wet.” I reach around and pull the hot, dripping cloth of my T-shirt away from my back. The relief is instant.

  “Damn, that was my whole coffee.”

  I spin to see the kid who hit the wall outside Coach’s office. He’s holding an empty Starbucks Venti cup. “Guess I’ll be sleeping through bio today,” he says. I’d like to punch that smirk off his face. He starts to walk away but Jack’s hand snags the back of his hoodie.

  “That’s all you got?” Jack demands.

  “Oh. Oops, I tripped.”

  Jack shakes the kid by the hoodie, and suddenly two other kids materialize behind him like scrawny bodyguards. One is a sophomore on my new team, and I don’t recognize the other. Clearly, Jack and I are supposed to feel outnumbered. Not that I care; my hands automatically curl into fists.

  Something soft pats against my back. I jump and turn around. But it’s only one of the lunch ladies with a towel. Coming up behind her is a custodian, pushing a mop bucket like the one in my broom closet at the rink.

  “Oh, dear,” the lunch lady moans. “There’s no way that won’t stain. Maybe a little bleach, in a hot-water wash. Hope your mama’s a miracle worker.”

  Jack gives the kid a shove as he lets him go. The boy runs out of the cafeteria after his friends, the bastards laughing as they leave. The lunch lady mops up the ends of my hair and dabs the back of my shirt with her towel while I apologize profusely for the mess. Coffee has soaked the butt of my jeans — there’s a look that definitely won’t get me teased — and my underwear sticks to my skin, forcing me into an unattractive squirmy dance.

  “Your skin’s all red,” Jack says, as the lunch lady scrunches my T-shirt in her towel, revealing my bare back. “Did he burn you?” He grazes the warm skin with his cool fingers, frowning at my back. I’m disconcerted that he’s not disconcerted by my bare skin, until I remember — swimmer. Modesty isn’t a thing with them.

  “No,” I stutter. “I mean, it was hot, but it doesn’t hurt.” I quickly pull the wet fabric from the towel, sure that my cheeks now match the pink bra strap visible to the entire lunch room. “Geez, this is going to be an uncomfortable afternoon.”

  “Do you have any gym clothes?”

  “No. Varsity athlete — I don’t have to take a gym class.”

  “Oh, right. I’ve got extra clothes in my locker.” He gives me a grin. “A pair of taper shorts might actually stay up on you.”

  Even drenched in coffee, I’ve still got a smile for Jack Ray. Especially if I get to spend the afternoon wearing his clothes. I follow him to his locker and he hands me a pair of long mesh shorts and a USA Swimming hoodie.

  I hold up the hoodie. “Exactly how good a swimmer are you?”

  He shrugs. “That was from some development stuff. Junior level.”

  Sure, no big deal. He waits outside the women’s restroom while I peel my formerly white T-shirt, the one I spent way too much time deciding on this morning, off my back. I dry what skin I can reach with the rough paper towels. Jack’s shorts sit low on my hips, even with the waist rolled, but they’ll work. His hoodie dwarfs me. Jack doesn’t look huge, he just looks athletic, but I’m guessing there are some decent-sized muscles under the baggy clothes he wears.

  It smells like chlorine, a smell that’s growing on me.

  His smile is shy when I exit the bathroom. “Looks good on you.”

  My answer comes out something like “gwerp” and my skin tingles to remind me that Jack has worn these clothes. I roll my ruined shirt in my jeans and tuck them into a plastic bag Jack got from the janitor. “Thanks for these,” I say.

  “No problem. Least I could do. Do you know that guy? He was a complete dick about it.”

  “I don’t know him but he tried out and didn’t make the team. Remember the kid who hit the wall?”

  “Ahh. That’s him?”

  I nod. “I kind of think that wasn’t an accident.”

  Jack frowns. “What do you want to do about it?”

  I don’t feel out for blood. I mean, it sucks, but I’m not hurt. Lost a favorite shirt. What am I going to do, go to Principal Belmont, who I’m sure is my biggest fan already, and say that maybe it was an accident or maybe the kid is pissed that I took what he thinks is his spot on the team?

  “Nothing.” I sigh. “It’s not worth it.”

  Jack slides an arm around my shoulders. “OK. But if it happens again …”

  “I’ll make him take me shopping for a new shirt.”

  “Oof. Yes, clothes shopping is the most severe punishment I can think of.”

  “Whatever. Apparently you shop at USA Swimming’s gift shop.”

  He chuckles. “Website. Then I can’t get roped into trying anything on.”

  * * *

  “Mich! Want a ride?” Jordan’s retired Crown Vic screeches to a stop next to me. Kendall leans over from the passenger’s seat, looking up from her phone long enough to wave hello. “Are you heading home?”

  “Yeah. Ride would be great.” The after-school rush in the parking lot is terrifying to navigate on foot. Plus, I have to save my energy for practice. I open the back door. Whitney and Jeannie scoot over to give me and my backpack enough room to squish in.

  “Where have you been?!” Whitney demands. “We never see you anymore.”

  “I know, I practically live at the rink.”

  “And eat lunch with Jack Ray,” Kendall sings from the front seat. “What. Is. Up?”

  I feel everyone’s gaze hit my sweatshirt — Jack’s sweatshirt. My armpits grow damp. I really don’t want to sweat in his shirt — it’ll totally ruin the chlorine smell.

  “Uh, nothing. We’ve eaten lunch a few times.”

  “And you come out of it wearing his clothes?” Kendall asks. “Nice. I should find a lunch buddy.”

  I swat her shoulder. “Stop. Some id
iot threw coffee on me. Jack lent me his shirt.”

  “Please tell me he slowly peeled it off his hot swimmer’s body.”

  The image makes me break out in fever. I giggle. “I wish.”

  Jordan speeds through my neighborhood. Squirrels and small children fling themselves out of the way. “You need to hang out more often,” Jeannie says. “We miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” I say, as Jordan swings into my driveway and stops with millimeters to spare between her bumper and the garage door. “We have our first game next week. Saturday night. Will you guys come?”

  “Dude, it’s Saturday night,” Jordan says.

  “You used to spend every Saturday night at the rink.”

  They exchange looks. “Well …” Jordan says. “Not anymore. Now we do real shit. Like go shopping in Marquette, see a band at the underage club, hang out at the U.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. I have never known them to be into clubs. Especially Jeannie, who is the stereotypical pastor’s kid. The sweater sets and cross necklace stereotype, not the Footloose stereotype.

  “Yeah. I mean, we have all this free time now and it’s so awesome to go do stuff, you know?”

  “Yeah, totally.” No, not at all. I have zero free time and I like what I do with my not-free time. I’d much rather fill my days with hockey than go shopping or clubbing. I just miss the girls.

  “But good luck!” chirps Kendall. “We want to hear how it goes!”

  “OK, of course. Thanks.”

  As I get out of the car, I hear Jordan ask, “Where are we getting caffeine today?” Then the car swings into reverse and revs down the driveway, narrowly missing the hedges.

  I have forty-five minutes to eat a healthy snack, memorize a sheet of French verbs and get to the rink.

  * * *

  My mom better invest in laundry detergent.

  I don’t know what it is about these guys and beverages. When I get back to my broom closet from conditioning, someone has poured orange Gatorade in my hockey bag. All over everything. They even got it in my skates — I have no idea how to wash those. Not that there’s time to clean it up now. We get five minutes to dress after conditioning.

  At least it smells citrusy sweet. God knows it could have been worse.

  Gatorade squelches in my skates as I clomp to the ice. Icy drips roll into my sports bra from my chest protector. Strands of hair, adhered to the padding of my helmet with dextrose and sucrose, rip from my scalp every time I move my head.

  “What is that gorgeous perfume, Manning?” Daniel asks, sliding up next to me at water break. “Not that I’m hitting on you. I just want to know how I can smell as fresh as an orange for practice.”

  I consider dumping my water bottle over his head but he skates away. Instead, I hand it back to Megan. Her nose wrinkles. “You do smell like oranges.”

  “They dumped Gatorade in my bag while I was at conditioning,” I say. “I’m all sticky.”

  She gets a sympathetic look on her face but break is over and I have to sprint to the next drill.

  After practice, Trent meets me at my closet door. He’s sweaty and red-faced, like he’s the one who just finished getting his ass kicked all over the rink by vengeful teammates and a cranky coach. Trent hands me a shiny silver key.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  He points at the door. “Try it.”

  I push on the handle, which the rink manager normally keeps unlocked for me.

  “No, try the key,” Trent says.

  It fits. I lock and unlock the door gleefully.

  “You can lock up your gear now,” Trent says.

  “Aw, yes! The rink manager agreed to let me have a key?”

  “No.” Trent grins. “Megan distracted the rink manager while I stole his key, ran to Ace and made a copy of it. So don’t tell anybody.”

  “I’d hug you —”

  “— but I don’t want to smell like your sweaty Gatorade,” he says, stepping back and running for the rink door. He hollers over his shoulder, “Meet you outside when you’re done.”

  “You’re the best, Trent,” I holler back. I turn to my newly lockable door.

  “Hey, Manning!”

  I look up toward the voice, coming from the guys’ locker room at the end of the hall. It’s Breaker, a tall, stocky senior. And he’s completely nude, unless you count the soapsuds all over his body. He does a jerky dance to a chorus of laughter behind him.

  I hit the doorknob and throw my body against the door but the fucking door is stuck. I fumble with the key again — I must have locked it when it was already unlocked. I keep my eyes trained on the gray metal door, but the movement in my peripheral vision tells me he’s still there, waving and dancing. Finally, the door gives and I stumble inside, my retinas burning and my brain permanently scarred.

  I hate boys.

  11

  “Whaaaaat’s up?????!!!!!”

  I hold the phone away from my ear and groan. “Not me.” My tongue is thick at one thirty in the morning, my words slurring almost as much as Brie’s are.

  “We just finished team initiation,” she shouts, “and it was AWE-SOME! We did a scavenger hunt around campus but it was totally cool and the boys’ a cappella group serenaded us — I know that sounds lame but they’re all hot and I was totally swooning. And then one of the girls’ parents reserved a private room at this swank hotel restaurant and we got all these fancy desserts and we’re camped out in a suite here and we have so much champagne and I love bubbles! Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!”

  Did she make a hockey team or rush a sorority? She should be here, sharing the broom closet with me, rolling her eyes at Daniel, bad-mouthing the idiots at our end of the bench during water breaks.

  I go from sleepy to mad, zero to sixty. I’ve bottled all my anger from the last few weeks, because now that I’m on a guys’ team, I have to pay my dues to be accepted. I’m supposed to laugh off the Gatorade and Breaker’s flashing. Can’t act like I’m too weak to take it or that it bothers me. But fuck if I’m going to squeal over Brie’s perfect life when she should be bashing on these guys with me.

  I sit up and spew like a volcano. “I’ve spent the last three weeks busting my ass for a team that hates my guts. Studying my brains out. Friendless with no social life. And you call me in the middle of the night — the night before my first game — to tell me that your life is one big party at a swank hotel? It is one thirty in the morning, Brie. What the hell are you doing drinking champagne at some hotel?”

  “Oh, my God, did I dial Michigan’s number or Mrs. Manning’s?”

  “Brie, you barely have time to text me. Why are you calling in the middle of the night if it’s not to rub it in how great your life is? So, OK. Your life is fabulous. Mine is not. I gotta go. I need sleep.”

  I hang up, drop my phone on my nightstand and re-curl up under my comforter. But I’m waiting for it … 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5 … ping! Yep, there it is.

  You totally suck

  Miss you too, bitch.

  Now I can go back to sleep.

  * * *

  I am the queen of pre-game. Most hockey players have pre-game planned down to the second. From breakfast in the morning all the way to puck drop in the evening. It is a science. It is an art.

  It is wizardry.

  Of course, adjustments must be made this season. But the basics are in place. I wore my old, holey MTU T-shirt, although I had to wear it under a buttoned collared shirt with a tie, Coach’s orders. I was going to raid Trent’s closet for a tie, but Megan surprised me with a green clip-on bedazzled with gold sequins that reads ORHS. It looks kind of Vegas but it’s not like I was trying to win any awards for my cross-dressing ability.

  Pre-game snack: banana with peanut butter and honey. Pre-game music: Katy Perry and Lady Gaga. Of course, instead of blasting it in the locker room
I’m listening to it through earbuds in my broom closet.

  But my stick-taping ritual has not changed. Neon pink with three twists on the butt end. White tape and grape Sex Wax on my blade. And I’ve still got my lucky jersey. At Owl River High School, you have to buy your own game jersey but you get to keep it. Since the boys’ and girls’ teams wear the same jerseys, my parents refused to buy a new one. Which is fine by me. I’ve slept in my jersey, that’s how tight we are. I’m glad we’re going into battle together.

  Of course, it was supposed to be sporting an A this season. But I force myself to move past that sad fact.

  I’ve added one other detail to my pre-game this season. I slide Jack’s pennant out of my skate and unroll it. After the Gatorade soaking, I was worried it wouldn’t make it. But I hand-washed it in the bathroom sink and laid it out to dry and it actually looks better than it did before taking a beating in the pool demolition. I lay it on top of my bag and smooth it out.

  Jack swims twice a day, trains so hard that he loses thirty pounds a season and considers weight lifting a day off. He loves swimming and he doesn’t expect it to come easily. Not that hockey’s been easy for me. But now that I’ve made this team … I never knew I could work this hard. Maybe this means hockey really can be a bigger part of my future. I have to push my body as hard as I can. I will rise above my teammates’ crap. I can take a hit. I can even dish one out if I need to.

  Yes. I can do this.

  Time to get dressed. There is an exact process to this on Game Day. Spandex, sports bra, tank top, garter. Right sock, left sock. Right shin guard, left shin guard. Right hockey sock, left hockey sock. Attach them to my garter. Breezers and belt. Now I braid my hair. No, I cannot do it at home before I get to the rink. Right skate. Left skate. Tape shin guards from bottom to top. Right first, obviously.

  What happens if I accidentally put my left skate on before my right? Neptune rockets through space and crashes into Earth, instantly ending the solar system as we know it. You don’t mess with this stuff.