Off the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  “I have a feeling, in a little while, I’m gonna bang my head against the wall for going all crying drama queen on you,” I admit.

  “Stop,” Tate orders, leaning down to kiss me. A couple of his teammates walk by us and whistle, but Tate doesn’t look away from my face. He touches his forehead to mine and gives me one more quick kiss before pushing away from the wall. “See you later, Claire.”

  I had planned on heading home, but I get stopped several times by the skate rental girls who want to talk about the ball. Then, Renee who runs the concessions tells me all about her daughter’s wedding that’s coming up on Valentine’s Day. She wants to know if O’Connor’s caters weddings.

  I’m still talking to Renee when Coach Bakowski and the varsity team take the ice. I let her continue on about buffet and cake options, while I witness Bakowski run those boys into the ground. The skating, turning, stopping, shooting, and hitting people goes on and on. I figured since Tate was always guarding the goal, he didn’t have to do any of the regular player stuff, but he’s right beside Jake Hammond, sprinting from blue line to blue line. There is an obvious difference in the skating abilities of each player. But still, they move as one machine, hitting a mark, twisting in place, hitting the next mark.

  When one of the boys looks ready to collapse, Bakowski stalks over to him, tennis shoes moving with ease on the ice, blows his whistle sharp in the kid’s ear, and yells until he finds the energy to move again. The only varsity freshman, Cole Clooney, bends over beside Tate, resting his hands on his knees. Despite Bakowski’s directions for them to skate again, the kid pulls off his helmet. His face is a dangerous shade of red.

  In the front of the bleachers, a woman jumps to her feet and shouts at him. “Get your damn helmet back on, Cole!”

  The kid sways, losing his balance. Tate grips the back of Cole’s practice jersey, holding him up. When Bakowski turns his head to talk to the assistant coach, Tate leans down and whispers something to Cole. He bends over farther, shakes his head, then stands upright. Jake Hammond reaches over and shoves the helmet back on the kid. Bakowski blows the whistle again and both Jake and Tate push Cole Clooney forward.

  A few minutes later, Bakowski gives them thirty seconds to get water. I spot Cole Clooney leaning over a garbage can, heaving up nothing. Leo grabs a water bottle, takes it over to him without any eye contact or exchange of words. The whole practice is eerie in its silence. Its intensity.

  Watching Cole Clooney skate until he nearly passes out is nothing compared to seeing Tate behind the goal. Bakowski lets all the boys take hundreds of shots, pucks flying at Tate constantly. I jump and wince every time the puck smacks into the glass or against the crossbar.

  Finally, Bakowski blows a whistle, stopping all the shots. Everyone is silent, watching him stalk over to Tate. He sticks a foot inside the goal and sweeps out a puck.

  “That’s the game-winning shot at Sections,” he says, his voice lower than usual but somehow more intimidating. He sweeps out another puck that had gotten past Tate. “And that’s the shot that knocks us out of State in the first round. At this rate, we’ll be the laughingstock of high school hockey.” He turns to face all the boys. “Thanks to Tanley, we’re gonna lose State.”

  My heart is about to beat out of my chest. I can’t imagine how Tate feels.

  “What do you think, boys?” Bakowski says. “Think Tanley needs another round of shots minus the chest pads to get his head out of his ass?”

  The boys now have their helmets tucked under their arms. None of them responds to Bakowski’s threat.

  “How late can we stick around here?” Bakowski shouts at the assistant coach across the rink.

  The guy is young and looks almost as stricken as the players. I remember his name now. Ty. He’s ordered takeout from us before. Mushroom burger on rye, I believe. No coleslaw.

  “Ten,” Ty responds back.

  “Ten,” Bakowski repeats with a nod. “It’s six now. I’ll tell you what, boys. If Tanley manages to stop your lame-ass shots in the next five minutes, we’ll finish up at eight. If not, we’ll end practice with an extra two hours of suicides. Got it?”

  “I think I just figured out why his mom never watches practice,” I say.

  “You’re telling me,” Renee replies, whistling under her breath. “It’s always worse after the holidays, when they’re gettin’ ready for the playoffs.”

  Bakowski blows his whistle, getting ten or twelve of the boys to quickly form two lines, preparing to shoot at Tate. At the far end of the rink, Ty has taken the sophomore backup goalie and a few of the varsity defenders and is running them through shooting drills. Even from my spot far away, I can tell the temperature at that end of the rink is at least twenty degrees warmer. That’s probably where Tate would be right now if Mike Steller hadn’t walked out during that first home game.

  One by one, the boys all take shots on goal. Tate is everywhere, covering high corners and low corners, his stick and glove working overtime. Bakowski decreases the time between whistle blows, sending the players to shoot at shorter and shorter intervals, until Tate is a blur in motion. I stand there mesmerized. I don’t know how he can keep track of where the pucks are when they’re coming so fast. If he’s afraid right now, I’d never be able to tell.

  All the boys rotate through the line, then take a shot at the other end, with the backup goalie. Pucks are sliding past the backup kid every five or six shots, but Bakowski shows no interest in his mistakes.

  When Tate snatches one of Leo’s shots out of thin air, Bakowski grabs Leo’s jersey and gives him a shove so hard he falls over his stick and slides several feet across the ice. “Get your damn head out of your ass! You shoot like that at State and you’ll be headed nowhere fast next year.”

  Leo is back on his feet in two seconds flat. I glance at Tate and see that his gaze has followed Leo despite his rock-solid focus thus far. Jake Hammond skates toward the goal and Tate snaps his attention forward again. He manages to cover the goal, the puck bouncing off his leg pad.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Bakowski says. “Tanley misses and we all stick around for a late night. But you keep shooting like pansy-ass freshmen, and we’ll have a late practice all week.”

  He gets right up in Cole Clooney’s face, yelling at him to use a more difficult shot. “You ready to go back to JV yet, son? Wish you hadn’t come into my office pledging your allegiance to my team…I’m ready, Coach. I can handle this. You’d better start proving it, or I’ll find someone to replace you for the playoffs.”

  Bakowski takes the shooting drills up a notch by having the second line of players act as defenders, trying to shove the other around, hoping to mess up his shot. It means they’re all in motion constantly. Skating, checking, shooting.

  Tate is making some spectacular saves, in my opinion. But Bakowski keeps yelling at him, saying he’s hesitating or that it was a lazy shot. Then he yells at the player with the lazy shot.

  After dozens and dozens of rounds of this, Jake Hammond knocks Jamie Isaacs right on his ass and pulls off the most amazing shot I’ve ever seen at a high school game. It bounces off the crossbar, then slides right between Tate’s legs into the net.

  Bakowski blows the whistle again, but this time long and sharp. They all seem to know this means stop. The entire rink is frozen again, while Bakowski digs out the rebellious puck that made it through.

  He holds the puck in his hand, tosses it up in the air, and then catches it again. “I don’t know if I should be thrilled that we’ve got one player who can score a goal or worried that our goalie can’t block a single trick shot. And that’s with clear sight, no one screening him. How about I just declare myself pissed off about both these things? How about we have a nice long night together, boys.”

  Tate draws in a deep breath, his chest filling but not deflating.

  Bakowski tosses the puck at Jake Hammond. “You made the shot. You can go home now if you want. Your choice.”

  Jake doesn�
�t move.

  “The rest of you can thank Tanley for the ass beating you’re about to get.”

  My heart drops to my stomach.

  “Well,” Renee says, shaking her head. “Come back here and help me get these water bottles ready.”

  She opens the little door off to the side, allowing me to go behind the concession counter.

  Renee is busy pulling items out of a storage closet. “When they get going long hours, I usually make up my special mix. A bit of Gatorade, some water, and then that god-awful Pedialyte stuff they give to babies. I read on the internet the NHL players use it to keep hydrated.”

  I hurry up and help her with the water bottles, following her mixing instructions carefully. She tells me that last year, around this time, two players ended up in the hospital needing IV fluids. The way rumors spread around here, I’m surprised I hadn’t heard about this before. And then there’s Renee, the way she’s prepared for this, even anticipating it. For the first time ever, I’m seeing a side of varsity hockey that’s much different than the king-of-the-world, screw-any-girl-I-want side.

  Maybe this is the only way to have a winning hockey team.

  Chapter 35

  –Tate–

  Getting closer to Sections and State means cheerleaders on the bus with us. More specifically, Haley on the bus. Haley, who hasn’t spoken to Claire or me since New Year’s Eve. Maybe today is the day to break the ice. For Claire’s sake.

  I take my time stowing my hockey bag underneath the charter bus, and I’m one of the last people to board. I drift down the aisle, my gaze wandering, looking for the blond ponytail.

  I spot her backpack on a seat. She’s sitting alone, scrolling through her phone. I reach for the backpack, preparing to lift it so I can sit beside her.

  She raises her head, hand shooting out to grip her bag. Kayla ducks under my arm from behind and scoots right into the seat beside Haley. I sigh and walk down the aisle. Leo waves at me, and I head for the very back to sit beside him.

  Leo tugs his headphones down around his neck.

  “You’re glad it’s over, right? I know she was the one who wanted to take a break…”

  “I’m glad it’s over,” I agree. “But we had our moments, you know? It wasn’t all bad.”

  Leo snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. I’ve seen more of those moments than I’d like to admit. If I could erase certain things from my memory, believe me, I would.”

  I glance around, making sure the rows in front of us are still empty. “Why? You weren’t, like, jealous, were you?”

  Oh, shit. That just came out, didn’t it?

  Leo stares at me, shock written all over his face. “You went there. I can’t believe you fucking went there.”

  I scrub a hand over my face. “Yeah. I did. Sorry.”

  Leo faces forward again, pulling his headphones back into place. “Relax, T-Man, you’re not my type.”

  “But I am sort of your type.” I glance at him, lowering my voice. “Wait, so you mean, like, me specifically? I’m not your type?”

  He turns to me. “This is really bothering you? You need me to tell you you’re hot stuff or what?”

  “No,” I snap. “Jesus. I don’t fucking need you to tell me anything. I was just making conversation.”

  Leo laughs, and we both sit in silence while the bus pulls out of the school lot and heads down the road.

  “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For, you know, being cool.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. And then I add, “But Kennedy—please tell me you have other options.”

  Leo shakes his head, still laughing. “How about you spend less time thinking about my love life and more time thinking about the game?”

  “Right. The game.” My stomach is in knots all over again.

  The game is all I can think about for the entire bus ride. So, when Bakowski holds me back in the locker room, I’m already on edge, already near cracking.

  “We win tonight, Tanley, and we’ve got a shot at the best seat going into Sections,” he says.

  I nod. I get it. We need to win. I need to not let the other team score. Easy, right?

  “Believe me, you want that better seat. Takes the pressure off the first couple of games in the playoffs.”

  That’s probably the most logical, nonthreatening thing Bakowski has ever told me. And somehow it changes my perspective. I’m not as afraid of the ridicule that comes with losing; instead I’m thinking about the benefits of winning. We’re ranked number one in our section right now, but a loss would put us back to second or third. Then we’d have to play the top team much earlier in the tournament.

  My glove is working overtime the whole warm-up, my teammates probably worried that I’ll mess up again and forget how to use the damn thing. But luckily, it’s working for me today. Inside my head, I’m still a fucking mess, doubting every move, but my body seems to know the drill. It should after all the extra hours of practice we’ve had this week.

  And while our sophomore backup goalie takes a turn warming up, I study the other team’s shots, trying to absorb as much data as possible. This proves to be a useful tool during the first period. They’ve got a small handful of good shooters but I’m ready for all their shots, keeping that 0–0 score.

  Near the end of the third period, one of their younger players gets ahold of the puck, breaks away, and my heart is pounding so hard I can’t even hear the crowd. He’s flying toward me with so much speed I can’t think. This kid is faster than Hammond. I shift back and forth, preparing for his shot.

  He slaps it hard and fast. My body reacts on instinct, diving in front of the goal. The puck lands in the pocket of my glove, but the kid who took the shot is coming at me, too fast to dive out of the way. His skate pushes forward. He’s bracing himself for the fall. The blade of his skate jams into my chest and both of us are sliding backward, the goal moving with us until it hits the boards with a jolt.

  The lights flicker in front of my eyes and eventually go completely black.

  Chapter 36

  –Claire–

  “Oh my God,” I say at the same time Jody says, “Shit!”

  Number four from Homebrook took a shot and then kept going. He and Tate are now tangled up in the goal. My heart thuds, my stomach dropping.

  “He caught it, right?” Jody says. “I can’t see the puck.”

  Number four manages to disentangle himself from Tate and stand, but Tate hasn’t moved. My hands lift up, covering my mouth. “Oh God, I think he’s knocked out. Is he knocked out?”

  “No way.” Jody shakes her head, but she doesn’t sound completely sure. “He didn’t even hit his head.”

  “Maybe he hit it on the ice.” I glance around. Is there a way down there? Wait, we can’t go running out on the ice to check on him.

  Jamie Isaacs skates over to Tate, along with Leo and Jake Hammond. Tate is still curled on his side, his glove resting on the ice. Oh my God. He is knocked out.

  Move, Tate.

  Beside me, Jody mutters the same words, “Fucking move, Tate.”

  The ref pulls off his helmet just as Bakowski makes his way out on the ice. I hold the air in my lungs, waiting for someone to move out of the way so I can see. We’re pretty high up in Homebrook’s stands.

  When Bakowski holds a phone to his ear, I nearly scream out loud. Please tell me they’re not calling an ambulance, please. I’ve seen it happen at games. But it’s never made me feel this panicked before.

  The ref shifts sideways, and finally we can see Tate’s head.

  His eyes are open.

  “Thank God,” I say, my legs weak with relief. I’m hit with a wave of dizziness so bad, I have to sit down.

  Jody plops down beside me, her own sigh of relief mixing with mine. “Jesus freakin’ Christ. Why did he take so long to move? He’s probably into the drama of it all.”

  I laugh, tears prickling at my eyes. That’s so not Tate, and we both know it.

  The people in front of us sit back down
, and by the time we get a clear view of the ice, Tate is sitting up and slowly getting back on his feet, or skates, actually. But he’s hunched over, his hand clutching his stomach.

  “He’s not gonna keep playing, is he?” I ask.

  “Don’t they have some rule about not playing if you were unconscious?” Jody chimes in.

  “He definitely got knocked out,” I agree, wanting nothing more than to see Tate on that bench. “It might have only been a few seconds.” It felt like an hour.

  Sure enough, Tate ends up on the bench moments later, the sophomore second-string goalie now in his place. I don’t even watch the game. I keep my eyes on the team doctor hovering over Tate, shining a light in his eyes.

  “Dammit,” Jody says, staring at her phone. “I’m gonna have to call my mom, right? What should I say? ‘He was knocked out and stabbed in the stomach with a skate blade, but he’s awake now’?”

  “I could text Roger,” I offer. “Let him break the news to your mom.”

  Jody flashes me a grin. “Do it. Let’s take bets on how long before my mom calls me after you text Roger. I’m gonna say four minutes.”

  “I’ll give her ten.” I quickly punch in a text. “Let the countdown begin.” I pass my phone to Jody in case she wants to reply.

  While my eyes are glued to Tate on the bench, Jamie Isaacs manages to score a goal and the game ends at 1–0. Us.

  It takes seven minutes for Jody and Tate’s mom to call her. She’s on the phone with her the whole time we’re making our way out of the stands, and then she forces Jody to wait for the guys to come out of the locker room so she can check on Tate herself. Of course I’m not complaining about seeing him up close, making sure he’s okay. But I’m not looking forward to his teammates seeing me checking up on him.

  “What kind of catastrophic injuries are possible if he’s walking and talking?” Jody says to her mom. Their exchange goes on for a while until the team finally begins to file out of the locker room and head toward their bus outside.

  I push off the wall, anxious to get this over with. Leo comes out before Tate and makes his way over to Jody and me.