Michigan vs. the Boys Read online

  It’s eleven when we pull into the high school parking lot. I’m relieved that neither of my teams has practice tomorrow. I plan on spending quality time with my pajamas in the morning, until at least noon. My heart breaks thinking of our post-game sleepovers at Brie’s house, making a mess of her kitchen while cooking pancakes in the morning.

  The bus driver and coaches shuffle down the stairs to drag hockey bags out of the cargo hold and we all dawdle, hoping it’ll be done by the time we exit the bus so we don’t have to help. This is a rookie job on most teams but the coaches seem to know they’ll be here all night if they wait for those boys to untangle their earbuds and find their jackets.

  “NHL 17 at my house!” Daniel shouts as he struts down the aisle of the bus. “Dudes only, no dykes,” he amends as he passes my seat.

  I’m up without thinking. My hands grab Daniel’s throat, pushing him backward. He crashes down into a bench seat, and suddenly I’m in a flurry of fists and knees. Grunts and swears fill my ears. Hot, garlicky breath hits my cheek. Something sharp like an elbow grazes my eye and I lose my knit hat to the floor. Hands wrench my arms behind my back. I fight like a cat in a washing machine until I realize it’s the assistant coach. I let him steer me back to my seat. He shoves me roughly and I bounce onto the vinyl bench, breathing hard.

  It is dead silent on the bus.

  Coach stands in front of me, his body blocking Daniel from my fists. Daniel’s panting but his eyes glint, even in the deep shadows of the bus. “Go on, Danny,” Coach says, giving Daniel a nudge toward the door. “Everyone off!” he calls to the rest of the team, who have packed the aisle, drooling for some drama.

  I grab my backpack. I should give Daniel room to leave, but I am so ready to obey Coach’s orders and get the hell out of here. Coach turns an angry eye on me. “Sit, Manning.”

  Aw, shit.

  The team files by. A few deliberately stare straight ahead as they pass. Most smirk. Some even give low snickers, like it’s amusing that I’m in trouble.

  Not one of those bastards says Daniel was out of line. Not to me, not to Coach. Certainly not to Daniel.

  Yeah, OK, I shouldn’t have lunged. But Daniel does not get to use that word. Not with me, not with any woman, regardless of her sexuality. Having been on a team full of hockey-playing girls, I am fully aware of the appropriate way to address a non-heterosexual woman and that term is not it. If you’re going to use that word, you damn well better own your lesbianism. Daniel does not.

  The bus empties. Outside, the parking lot lights shine on clusters of boys filtering into cars, tossing bags in the back of SUVs, threading sticks through the seats.

  It’s pitch-black on the bus. The driver is still outside, sliding bags out of the storage chutes. Assistant Coach Peters stomps a foot onto the seat behind mine, leaning his elbow on his knee. Coach Henson stands at the front of the bus. He crosses his arms.

  “The only reason you made this team,” he says, “is because I couldn’t justify to Megan why I would cut you.”

  The dark makes me brave. I stand and face him. “I would never allow a player on her team to call her a dyke.”

  “Good for you,” he says patronizingly. “She is a thirteen-year-old girl. You are sixteen. What did you think would happen when you joined a boys’ team? Did you think you’d get a free pass for being female? Luckily, it was only Daniel, instead of you costing us a penalty for charging someone in a game. Did it occur to you, Manning, that when you’re out on the ice with teenaged boys, someone might call you a mean name?” He uses a condescending tone for “mean name” and this pisses me off most of all. I’ve taken a lot from these guys already. Talk to me like a fucking adult. “Did it not occur to you that you have to toughen up if you’re going to play boys’ hockey? You think all these guys do is call names?”

  No. I know they also know how to use scissors and are so uncoordinated with beverages that they should have to use sippy cups.

  But I keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t sound like I’m getting cut. Yet. Keep mouth shut. Keep mouth shut.

  Coach leans forward and the shadows of the bus darken his features even more. “How about the first time you go into the corner and some guy pulls your feet out from under you? Whacks you in the back of the head because he doesn’t like girls on his ice? How about if he grabs your butt or your chest or pulls that cute braid of yours?”

  Is he talking about opponents or my own teammates? Mouth. Still. Shut.

  “Did you have any clue what you signed up for?” Coach growls.

  No.

  I swallow. “I just want to play hockey. I can take care of myself on the ice.”

  “No, you can’t.” He sits back, resting against the front of the bus. “You can’t even keep your shit together around your own teammates.”

  The bus driver slams the luggage doors closed. Thud. Thud. Thud. I think Coach is waiting for me to apologize. But I won’t.

  I wait to be cut.

  Coach sighs. “However.”

  Air whooshes back into my lungs. Coach stabs a finger in my direction. “You scored three goals for me this week. If you hadn’t, I would be crossing your name off my roster this minute.”

  Interesting. I raise my chin and stare through the darkness at him. “I want to play center next game.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from Peters behind me. Yes, The Girl has balls.

  Time ticks even slower than it did when I wrestled the sumo-sized defenseman in the corner this evening.

  “One chance,” Coach finally says. “If you deliver, you stay at center. If not, you go back to wing.”

  “Deal.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder and sweep past him. “Night, Coach. Good game.”

  13

  Dad’s is the last car in the parking lot. The engine quietly hums and steam puffs out of the exhaust pipe. I can see Trent’s silhouette in the backseat. When I drop my bag on the pavement, Dad pops the back of the Explorer and gets out to lift my bag in.

  “Great game, kid,” he says. I knew he’d follow the live stats online.

  “Thanks, Dad. Coach said I get to play center next game.”

  “Yes!” Dad ruffles my nasty dried-sweat hair.

  “Got any food in here?” I ask.

  Dad tosses a granola bar at me as I slide into the passenger seat. I grin. “Got any more?”

  He tosses the whole box at me. I will probably kill it on the five-minute drive home. Trent’s fist appears over the shoulder of my seat. I bump it with my own.

  “Not bad, Sixteen,” he says.

  “Thanks, Six.”

  He tosses a lump of fabric into my lap. “What’s this?” I ask, with half a granola bar crammed into my mouth. But it’s obvious what it is from the sleek, heavy mesh. I hold it up. The Owl River Youth Hockey logo is barely visible in the dark car. “Your jersey?”

  “Turn it over.”

  I do, and he shines the flashlight from his phone over my shoulder on the large 16 sewn on the back.

  “You changed your number.”

  He turns the light off and flicks my shoulder. “Yeah. We’re sixteen now, right?”

  Granola bar clogs my tightening throat. “Yeah.” I never thought about why Trent wore number six. If I had, I guess I would have called it a coincidence. “It looks good, dude.”

  “Got a call from the sports guy at the Gazette,” Dad says. “He wants to interview you tomorrow. Pretty impressive, huh?”

  “Do I have to?” I tear open another granola bar. I’m not a big fan of raisins but I’d eat my seat belt right now.

  Dad looks over at me, his brow wrinkling. “You don’t want to? I thought you’d be more excited.”

  The last thing I need is to be singled out, to put an even bigger bull’s-eye on my back. In the first two games we played, the only team that seemed pissed to have a girl on the ice
was my own. But it’s early season. I’ve got a lot more teams to meet. And starting the season strong doesn’t guarantee anything. I don’t need any more pressure on me to perform. I already have to “deliver” next game.

  “I’ve got a good start, Dad. I don’t want to screw this up. If I finish the season this strong, then maybe I’ll talk to the guy.”

  “Yeah, OK. I get that. No one likes to be seeded number one before they’ve really been tested.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll call the guy tomorrow, push him off a bit.”

  “Thanks.” Then I get an idea. “Can you suggest to him that it might be cool to put a spotlight on the teams that got cut? My girls’ team and the guys’ swim team? Maybe he could start by interviewing some of the other athletes before we talk.”

  Dad nods, eyes always on the road, of course. “Great idea, Mich. I’ll suggest it.”

  I rip open granola bar number three.

  * * *

  So the Gazette guy is off my back and now stalking Jack. Although I can’t take all the blame for that. It would have happened anyway; November 11 is the signing day for college swimming, and Jack is officially a Cal Berkeley Bear now.

  But unfortunately I couldn’t keep the school paper from making a big deal over my season openers. When I get to school Monday morning, the cheerleaders have covered my locker in shiny green gift wrapping paper and a large pink 16. They get a varsity letter for this, for gift wrapping, while I have bruises up and down my body. And that’s from practicing with my own teammates.

  “I’m dating a superstar,” Jack says, appearing next to me. He waves a copy of the school newspaper and hands it to me. The front page proclaims, “With Girls’ Team Cut, Manning Scores with the Boys.” Oh, geez. Don’t they have an adviser to edit this stuff?

  I choose to focus on Jack’s use of the word “dating” instead. Because, swoon.

  “Oh, we’re dating now?” I tease. “I thought you were just waiting to get your sweatshirt back.”

  He turns serious. “Actually,” he says, “lunch in the cafeteria is a lame excuse for a date. How about, the girl I want to date is a superstar?”

  “Kind of sounds like a boy-band song.”

  “So how about it?”

  “Can you really sing?”

  “No. I mean, I want to —” He falters. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I haven’t asked you to Winter Homecoming. I want to ask you — to go with you — but I can’t. I have a meet, at Michigan Tech, that Saturday night.”

  “What if … I come to your meet after my game?”

  His eyes light up. “You’d come? Really?”

  “Yeah. If you want me to.”

  “I do. You’re OK with missing the dance for a boring swim meet?”

  I doubt Jack without a shirt is boring. My face grows hot and I hope my blush isn’t giving away my thoughts. “I don’t want to go to the dance with anyone else. And I’d really like to see you swim.”

  He slips his hand in mine. “It’s a date. I’ll come to your game, you come to my meet.”

  “It’s a date.”

  IT’S A DATE.

  * * *

  Are you seriously leading the league in scoring right now or is that a typo on the website?

  I’m surprised Brie even cares enough to follow the league news. I hide my phone under the table. The library doesn’t frisk you for phones, but it would still be stupid to overtly text. Especially since Brie knows nothing of the zebra mussel invasion of the Great Lakes, which is what I’m supposedly researching.

  Under the table, I type: Do you mean, sorry for waking you up the other night and being a brat?

  Daniel and those guys must be shitting themselves.

  If they did, I’d know because they’d put it in my bag. They’re all jerks.

  Sorry it’s not going well. But great about scoring three goals so far.

  And two assists. But who’s counting?

  It would have been better if there was a sleepover and pancakes after the game.

  You do not want Daniel cooking for you, trust me. Or sleeping over.

  I’ll take your word for it.

  Not that Daniel ever slept over at Brie’s. There was no sleeping of any kind between them, but even the thought makes me cringe.

  It’s a tenuous string, but I’ll hold on to it. It feels so good to have a teammate to talk with that I can’t risk running her off.

  * * *

  I’m dead serious about practice this week. As Coach said, I have to “deliver” at next Saturday’s game. Once or twice, it’s occurred to me that I should quit while I’m ahead. Odds are there’s something nasty waiting for me in my hockey bag, someone lurking in the parking lot to jump me. I’m looking over my shoulder so often that I’m eventually going to walk into a wall. There’s a 50 percent chance I’m about to jump out of a plane and a 50 percent chance I’m about to get pushed out before I can strap on my parachute.

  But I’m playing boys’ hockey. And I’m kind of rocking it.

  No, I don’t have my girls around me. I’m not wearing my A. But I’m a better hockey player than I was two months ago. And there’s something about giving everyone the theoretical finger for thinking I couldn’t do this.

  Jack thinks I’m a superhero. Megan analyzes my stats like I’m on her fantasy team. Trent spent over an hour in the garage with me last night practicing face-offs. People who have never talked to me before congratulate me in the school hallways. Dad stashed a box of granola bars in my hockey bag. The good kind, peanut butter and chocolate chip.

  So I will deliver.

  I drop my bag in my broom closet before practice. Say hey to the spiders as I strip out of my jeans and T-shirt. Somewhere in my hockey bag is a sports bra and spandex shorts. Hopefully. I begin the excavation process.

  I don’t hear the door open until it slams shut behind Daniel. I hit the ceiling.

  “Shit! Get out! Get. Out.” I scrabble in my bag, looking for something to cover Michigan’s Secret, which is that I buy my bras and underwear at Target.

  He smirks at my chest. “Looks like you fit in better with the boys after all.”

  “Get. Out.” I can’t believe that when Brie and I were freshmen, I crushed on this guy. OK, even last year I did, before Brie started dating him and we hung out a couple of times and I realized he’s kind of perfect for her, which means completely not my type. I drape my practice jersey over me as best I can, covering my thin tan bra and the tops of my thighs.

  Daniel doesn’t waste time. “Quit the team, Manning.”

  “That’s what you barged into my dressing room to tell me? Get the fuck out before I tell Coach.”

  “I’ll tell Coach I was looking for a mop to clean up a Gatorade spill in the locker room. Who do you think Coach would rather believe?”

  “You touch me and I’ll scream bloody murder and knee your balls into your intestines.”

  “Ooh, you’ve gotten feisty, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I have no interest in” — he pointedly scans my legs — “that.”

  “I’m not quitting the team just because you walked in on me.”

  “Walking in on you is nothing, Manning. It gets worse. Get out before then.”

  “I’ve scored three goals for this team. Dished you a pass in front of the net. You’re welcome, by the way. What is your problem with me?”

  “Do you think my old man comes to my hockey games to see some girl set up my goals?” Daniel spits the words at me. “Do you think Breaker’s parents enjoy sitting through JV games because his little brother didn’t make varsity? Because you took his spot?”

  “I earned it. And your dad needs to get over it.”

  “This is my senior year. My last year of hockey. It’s supposed to be sweet shit and you’re fucking it up. Coach is a bipolar mess with you around. The guys ar
e all uptight, everyone’s pissed all the time. I want my old team back.”

  “So do I. We don’t always get what we want, Daniel.”

  He leans closer. I shrink back as far as I can. The icy cinder-block wall pins me in place. I turn my head away from Daniel’s hot breath and clutch my jersey shield.

  Daniel doesn’t move away, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I’m paralyzed, every part of me but my racing heart. If he touches me, I don’t know if I’ll have the breath to scream.

  He doesn’t touch me. He laughs in my face. It scares me even more.

  “I always get what I want, Manning.”

  * * *

  I should be running out of this rink. I should be shaking and cowering. Killing a box of Kleenex while on the phone with my girlfriends. Admitting to my mom that she was right; it’s too much. Meeting my dad at the station to file a police report.

  I should be telling Coach I quit. They win.

  I know this is what I should be doing. I hold my phone in my hand, contemplating my options, until the last minute before practice starts.

  But my heart rate has returned to normal. I’m no longer quaking like an aspen. I put on my breezers. My shoulder pads. I am strong in them. I put my skates on. Balanced on a 1/8th-inch blade of steel, I am steady, stable.

  Daniel will not win. Hell, no.

  I come out raring to go. I kill practice. The boys are huffing and tired by the end but I could keep skating.

  There might actually be something wrong with me.

  14

  Saturday. Winter Homecoming game. Playing center. Delivery Day.

  FIRST OFFICIAL DATE WITH JACK RAY.

  Our Homecoming game is against Calumet High School, our biggest rival. The entire school is busy on Homecoming; every sport has a game before the formal dance tonight. I’ll catch the girls’ basketball game in the late morning, then race to my game, then stop at home to shower and spend much time and effort on my hair, then to MTU for Jack’s meet. My mom even agreed to lend me her car for the night. She almost never lets me use her car at night. Unless I’ve got a late practice or game that she doesn’t want to have to pick me up from. Or if she sends me out to pick my brother up. Or to pick up dinner. But never for social stuff.