Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  Once the lower half of my body is completely padded, I put on chapstick. Blistex. Mint.

  Chest protector. Elbow pads. Lucky jersey.

  My chest protector pokes through two circular holes in my jersey, cut approximately where my boobs would be. I stare down at my chest, heaving with panicked breaths.

  Take a deep breath. Steel my diaphragm. Tuck my face into my chest pads.

  And scream “FUUUUUUUUCK” until my head hurts.

  There are boob holes in my lucky jersey. The jersey my parents bought me two years ago when I made the team. The jersey I scored thirty-three goals in. The jersey that has been baptized by my sweat, blood, snot and tears. The jersey that used to have my name on the back, but now, as I pull it back over my head, I realize has tape over the “ng” to read “Mannish.”

  They sabotaged my jersey. Before my first game.

  I can’t bear to look at it. I ball it up and stick it in my bag.

  My knees bounce. My hands shake. I can’t do this alone. I am not meant to be an individual athlete. I need teammates. Brie is MIA. My old teammates are either clubbing, swimming or playing with their new team. Jack — can I really bug out on the guy I like this early on? Should I find Coach? Will he care? Doubtful. Megan will totally sympathize with me. But I’m her coach, I don’t actually want her to see me cry … Oh, God, am I going to cry?

  It sounds like someone’s running laps in my closet and I realize it’s me. My breathing is fast and shallow and out of control. And I’m sweating like a — no, those are tears on my face. I’m crying before a game. I’ve cried after plenty, but never before. I stand and pace the room in my skates, my arms on top of my head. Slow breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Repeat slower. Hope the stars in front of my eyes return to the heavens.

  Those fucking bastards. I want blood. I want it dripping off my skates. I want them to hurt.

  So make them hurt. Take their fucking manhoods and chop them right off. That’s what they care about, right? Their soapy manhoods, shaking in the hallway at me.

  I will make them look like squirts. I will take their starting positions, their spots on the power play. They want to scare me off this team?

  Never. I will die first.

  I wipe my face. I hold my cold water bottle to my eyes until I’m sure they’re not red anymore. Then I poke my head out the door.

  “Megan!” I call. She’s standing in the hallway with an armload of clipboards and a bucket of pucks. “I need a blood jersey. And change my number on the roster.”

  “What happened?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Just get me a jersey. Please.”

  “OK. Be right back.”

  Twenty seconds later, she appears with an un-holey jersey from the blood bag. “I’ll change you to number sixteen on the scoresheet,” she says.

  “Thank you.” I pull the new jersey over my head, followed by my helmet and gloves. Lock my closet. Fix my eyes forward on the ice. I am so ready to play.

  I don’t care who’s wearing away jerseys tonight. I have a new opponent. My own team.

  * * *

  I kill it.

  Five shots on net, two goals and four hits (by me, not on me) later, I have won the first game of the season. I am permitted to stand in the doorway of the real locker room while Coach puffs his chest out and gloats over his win — “a real team effort, boys” — before I’m banned to my closet. From behind my metal door, I can hear the guys’ celebration. There’s a ton of hooting and laughing and obnoxious explicit rap.

  I drop my gloves into my bag, followed by my helmet. Plop my padded butt onto the cheap plastic folding chair. Say hey to the spiders.

  The second goal — that was the beauty. I close my eyes to picture it. I skated in from the far neutral zone on that one. Picked up a loose puck and just went with it, skirting two opponents, ignoring the call from Daniel to pass to him as he chased after me into the offensive zone. I never slowed my stride as I charged the goal and neatly flicked the puck between the goalie’s leg pad and blocker.

  I’d love to relive it all night, or at least until my leg muscles find the energy to push me out of this seat, but I have to get out of here. Knowing they still found a way to get to my gear gives my insides an icky feeling. Especially since I can’t lock my closet from the inside. I quickly strip my pads off and jam them in my bag. I throw my Coach-mandated slacks and shirt over my sweat-soaked underwear and sports bra, tucking the tie in my pocket. I look like a freaking waitress but I’ll be home in ten minutes. I shoulder my bag and keep my head down as I push through the crowd in the lobby.

  Everyone here is clad in Owl River green and gold, but I don’t get any slaps on the back. No congrats on my two-goal game. The decibels drop noticeably when I enter the overheated lobby. I push past my teammates’ parents, my ears straining to eavesdrop. I feel eyes on me, fathers sizing up my puny muscles and wondering how I beat out their freshman sons for a spot. Mothers clucking at my sorry excuse for an outfit, pitying my mother for getting stuck with such a butch daughter. My teammates’ girlfriends smirking at my sweaty, tangled hair. Younger brothers staring at my black sports bra soaking through my white button-up shirt.

  Two hands grip my biceps. I freeze and look up into dark eyes and the only friendly smile in the room.

  “Damn, you’re good,” Jack says.

  I’m suddenly alive, the sad, soaked wick of my insides lit with a quickly growing flame. “I can’t believe you stayed the whole game.” I know he’s got a meet early tomorrow morning, in Houghton.

  “I couldn’t leave. It was too good.”

  We’re pressed close by the crowd, which seems to be moving and humming again; the girlfriends on their phones and the moms with their green stadium blankets and padded seat cushions and the younger siblings running around with hockey sticks too long for them, clipping knees and shoulders without stopping to apologize.

  “I’m smelly,” I falter. “I don’t have a shower. I change in the broom closet.”

  He grins, his hands still gripping my arms. “I don’t care.”

  “I, uh, have a confession.”

  He cocks his head.

  “I took one of your pennants. From the pool wall, when they were tearing it down. I keep it in my hockey bag.” I don’t have a clue why I’m blurting this out. I’m such a stalker.

  Jack kisses me. Despite the jostling crowd, his lips graze mine gently.

  The red goal light flips on. The whistle blows. The ref signals. I pump my fist.

  Our kiss lasts just long enough to elicit a few throat clearings from nearby parents — thankfully, mine are not in sight. When Jack pulls away, his hand slides to mine and he leads me through the lobby. I refrain — barely — from excessive celebration over my most recent goal.

  “I like your number — sixteen,” Jack says. “That’s my lucky number.”

  My old number was six. “Really?” I ask. “Why?”

  “My best fly ever was sixteen strokes on the first length of a long course one hundred.”

  I have no clue what that means, but I think sixteen might be my lucky number, too.

  12

  Before we board the bus for Houghton, I catch Coach in his office. I don’t know if this is OK — my old coach always wanted us to come to her with issues or concerns. I’ve been trying not to cause any trouble for Coach Henson, but this is really weighing on me. I need his intervention.

  “Coach?” I ask. “May I have a quick word?”

  He doesn’t stop typing on his phone. “Quick one, sure.”

  My warm-up pants rustle as I step inside his office. If the guys knew I was here, they’d throw me under the team bus. I glance at the door, but Coach has kept it open the few times I’ve been in his office and he’s sure not looking like he’s going to get out of his chair now. Or even make eye contact with me.

 
“What’s the problem, Manning?” he grunts.

  To be honest, there’s a long list, but only one I’d consider addressing here.

  “I would like to know what I can do to earn a spot at center.” I practiced that. I didn’t want to get in here and stammer.

  “You’re staying at wing.”

  “And I’ve enjoyed playing wing, but I think I could win face-offs for you. And I’m strong on the back-check.”

  “My centers already win face-offs. And they’re strong on the back-check, too.” We both know that’s a lie. Even his D aren’t strong on the back-check.

  “It’s a goal I’d like to work toward. Is there anything I can do?”

  He finally sets his phone down. “It’s not happening, Manning. That’s my final word.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s easier to hide you on the wing. Keeps you out of the corner action, at least on one end of the ice. And let’s be honest, you don’t have the size to cover the net.”

  I take a deep breath so I can stick to my script with an even voice. “I don’t need to hide. I can handle the corners.” Sure, he’s got a point about my size. It just means I need to be smarter and faster, and I’m willing to work on that.

  “I’m not going looking for trouble, Manning. Besides, why do you care? You scored two last week playing wing. Looks like you’re getting plenty of chances for points.” He sounds bitter, like I was a puck hog who should have been setting up plays for his boys.

  “I’ve just always been a two-way player, I’ve always played center. I like the way the ice looks from there.”

  “Answer’s no. You ready for the bus?”

  Dismissed. I sigh. I know I can’t afford to push the issue. I miss playing center but I should be happy I’m playing any position.

  In the hallway, I shoulder my bag, pick up my sticks and take the first seat on the bus. I bury my nose in my phone, trying to ignore my teammates as they board the bus.

  “Stay away from the chick, guys!” Daniel hoots, hip-checking Avery into my lap.

  “Sorry.” Avery grins at me. Since he’s the only guy who congratulated me on my goals last week, I give him a grin back as I shove him to his feet.

  “Move along,” Coach barks, mounting the stairs. The loud chaos instantly changes to quiet, orderly seat-finding. Avery slides into the seat behind mine.

  “Avery, move back,” Coach says. “I want an empty row between Manning and you boys.”

  From the back, someone whispers loudly, “Watch out, Avery. Vagina is catching.”

  I cringe and sink lower into my seat, curling around my phone.

  Coach stops in front of my seat and holds up his hands. “And … distraction,” he says to me. As if it’s my fault his “boys” are actually Neanderthals.

  I don’t respond. I put my attention back on my phone, because I’m the one who needs distraction from this team. Catching up on the news around the hockey world, I find out that the Silver Lake girls won their first game last night. Cherrie didn’t get to play but Di had an assist. Brie’s team is playing their first game right now and they’re up 1–0 at the end of the second period.

  I text Jack to see how his meet is going. He replies immediately.

  Just waiting on the relays. Made finals in 100 free, 100 fly and 200 free.

  Congrats!

  On your way to Houghton?

  Yep. In my special front seat of the bus. At least it doesn’t smell like boy up here.

  Should I take offense at that?

  God, no. You’re the cleanest boy I know. You always smell like pool.

  Should I take offense at THAT???

  I giggle and scooch lower in my seat, losing myself in a world that’s much nicer than a school bus full of misogynists.

  * * *

  “Off the ice, Manning! Get a change!” Coach’s voice barely reaches me through the booing. All the orange-clad fans in Dee Stadium are on their feet, shouting unflattering descriptions of the ref’s mother at the official signaling a slashing call.

  I knew it. I knew Coach wouldn’t let me stay on the ice for the power play. I just got off the bench, too. But no, the PP is an honor that I’ll never earn because I have, as my teammate so eloquently put it on the bus, a vagina.

  I turn from the face-off lineup toward the bench. Scott Sanders sprints from the door to take my place.

  An angry blast from the referee’s whistle stops me. “Too late, Sixteen.” He waves Scott back to the bench.

  “Ref! You’re screwing up my power play!” screams Coach.

  “Then watch my hand next time. I gave you the line change. You didn’t take it.”

  “First chance you get, Manning!” Coach means first chance I get, I’m supposed to get off the ice.

  But the first chance I get isn’t for a line change. It’s to skate the puck in after a pretty poke check by Winston. All five of us storm the zone. There’s no way I’m wasting PP time with a change. It’s scoreless at the top of the third; we need this man advantage. I slide the puck back to my point. He lets us get down low, buying time with a lateral pass to his D partner. We’re closing in on the net, keeping the penalty kill busy, when Breaker takes the long shot. I slip around the D covering me — easy enough to do because he’s lumberjack sized and I’m not. The goalie butterflies and blocks the shot, but loses the puck in the chaos. I pick it up and flip it over his shoulder, into the net.

  The guys all surround Breaker, congratulating him. I make my lonely way to center ice, surrounded only by the ghosts of my former teammates, hugging me and shrieking with glee. The closest thing I get to a congratulation is Avery. In his goal at the far end of the rink, he hoots and whacks his thick goalie stick against the ice.

  Almost forgot I was supposed to line change at the first opportunity. Guess that would be now. I skate to the bench and hop over the boards.

  I’ve always been a solid player, toward the top of the stats sheet on points. But three goals in the first two games of the season? Holy shit. Maybe the animosity has forced me to elevate my game. Knowing Coach would love to have a reason to cut me. Or maybe because my team doesn’t pass to me — they don’t pass much to anyone, they all want the shot themselves. So there’s never anyone there to make plays with. When I played with girls, we were all polite to each other — give Brie the shot opportunity off the face-off because she’s got a killer slapshot. Di’s the fastest, so get her the puck on the breakaway.

  Now that I don’t fucking care about my teammates, I shoot whenever I damn well please.

  Coach doesn’t say a word to me. But when the Gremlins tie up the game with two minutes to go in the third, he whacks my shoulder pad with his clipboard. When I turn to face him, he grabs my facemask and shouts into my ear hole to be heard over the cheering crowd. “Switch with Winston!”

  I spring to my feet and race to the face-off, relieving the strong-side winger deep in the enemy zone.

  Center wins the face-off back to our D, who sends a quick shot into traffic. The puck is kicked around by bodies barreling into the slot, desperate for a chance to score or to clear the zone. I fight to get near it, but a large defenseman crashes into me, driving me back. He’s got me on sheer size but I’m still on my feet. I dig in, holding my ground. The puck dangles tantalizingly just behind his feet. I maneuver until I can get my stick on it, then make a one-handed pass to the slot. Daniel slides the puck past the goalie for the game-winning goal.

  During time-out, Coach tells me to stay in for the rest of the game. At 1:15 left, it’ll be a long shift, but I had a whole time-out to rest. I can handle it.

  I know how to kill time, but Coach instructs me like a rookie anyway. “If Sanders wins the draw,” Coach says, “get it down low, preferably against the boards. Kick it around a bit but don’t freeze it. Keep that clock running. If Sanders loses the draw, hustle back as thi
rd D.” So he still won’t let me take the draw, but once the puck is in play I’m expected to play my ass off on both ends of the ice.

  Gladly. I want this win.

  Coach wasn’t kidding about killing time. Sanders does win the draw to our D, who pushes over the center line before dumping the puck to the corner. I fly after it, crashing into the D who’s trying to dig it out. We fumble and kick along the boards. Seconds slowly tick off the clock but I can’t afford to check how much time is left. Pushing a two-hundred-pound load is no easy feat, and thirty seconds along the boards will gas even an NHLer. My chest heaves and my legs weaken. The puck is in my feet; I could kick it out if one of my teammates would get close enough to catch it. My head swivels, looking for the pass. Daniel stands outside the blue line.

  “Kill time,” he calls.

  Sanders also stands at the blue — why isn’t he dropping down to pick up the puck? Every one of them is standing around waiting for this game to end. Except me. I’m bench-pressing a mammoth while time stands still.

  I’m finally saved by the buzzer. Coach hugs Daniel like a homecoming hero, slapping his helmet and yelling happily through his cage. Drops of sweat sting my eyes, and I shake my head so no one will think I’m crying. This isn’t my old team, my old coach or even Coach Norman. Of course Coach Henson would never hug me. Doesn’t mean he isn’t proud or appreciative. It means that he told his players to keep a respectful distance and he’s doing the same.

  Avery whacks my shins with his stick as we cycle into the handshake line. “Thanks for the win, chica.”

  “Nice game,” I say, tapping his pads back. But then I focus on moving through the line. I don’t want to cause trouble for the only guy who’s nice to me.

  * * *

  My stomach rumbles the whole way home. Peters, the assistant coach, climbed on the bus with a stack of pizzas after the game. He gave the seniors first crack at them, torturing my nose with the sweet, garlicky smell wafting from the back of the bus. The boxes were nothing but greasy cardboard by the time they made it up to me.