Sophomore Surge
Page 30
“It doesn’t have to be even, I’ll get a real cut back home, but I want the red gone.”
“Someone get me a trash can. I don’t want to make a mess.”
J-Rod wrestles a trash can away from Big Red who groans and curls up on the floor.
“Will he need this?”
“I won’t take long.” Spitz moves behind her, and their teammates crowd around as if they’ve never seen anything so interesting. Witzer even holds her hair for Spitz to cut. It takes a few false tries before the first chunks fall into the trash can. Once Spitz learns how much hair the scissors can cut at once, the process goes by quickly. When it’s done, she pulls her hair into a bun to hide the uneven ends and Spitz gives Big Red his trash can back.
“Is this what girl sleepovers are like?” Merlin asks. “Whose hair are we doing next?”
“No more hair.” X takes the scissors away from Spitz.
“Nail polish?”
X gives Sophie a look as if this is her fault or, more likely, as if he wants her to put a stop to it. She rolls onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows. “I’ve never been to a girl sleepover. Unless you count the Winter Games. There was no nail polish, but we had team cuddles. It was good.”
Witzer tucks himself next to her. He smells like locker room soap and, underneath it, the faint staleness of the locker room. They still have cleanout day, but it’s only one day and then it’s a long summer before she’s back in Concord. She turns her face into his shoulder and inhales.
Merlin, never one to be left out, joins them, squishing her between her two wingers. “Can’t have you liking a bunch of Canadians more than us.”
“Speak for yourself.” Kevlar lies across from Sophie and grins when she lifts her head up enough to see him. “Canadians are the best.”
“Damn straight.” Now Sophie’s lying down, the series, the whole season really, feels as if it’s finally hitting her. She drops her head back to her arms. “I’m going to take a little nap. Then we can play truth or dare or something.”
Someone drapes a blanket over her. It’s the last thing she remembers before falling asleep.
Locker room cleanout is brutal, and she flies home, still weighed down with disappointment. Next year will be different. It has to be. She taps her fingers on her thighs as she stares out the airplane window. There’s talk of re-signing Merlin this summer. His contract is up next year, same as hers, but management might not want to get him under contract again. Or, more likely, they’ll trade him next year.
No free agent chooses Concord, and the players who do play here never re-sign. Management knows it and trades the players coming up on the end of their contracts so they can get something for them instead of letting them walk for nothing.
If Merlin doesn’t get a shiny new contract this summer, it’s a sign he won’t be with them at the end of next season. Montreal, Toronto, Boston, those are all teams players gravitate towards, teams with rich history and a tradition of winning even if Boston’s been on a downswing.
Everyone said their goodbyes at locker room cleanout, but she didn’t think about how many of them were permanent goodbyes. By the start of the upcoming season, her team will look different than it does now. Who should she have hugged longer? Merlin? Teddy? Garfield and Nelson?
She lands in Thunder Bay and lingers by baggage claim long enough to haul her two suitcases off the belt. Her car is in storage back in Concord, and most of her things are locked up in her apartment. She has the important stuff in her bags and what she forgot she can buy here. It seems wasteful to have enough clothes and gear to fill two places, but it’s easier than lugging it from one country to another.
She takes a cab to her parents’ house. The driver recognizes her and says, “Sucks, we were rooting for you,” before he turns the radio up.
She offers him a smile before she fiddles with her phone, pretending it has her full attention.
Home is…home. It’s the street she grew up on, the same nets set up in driveways but different kids playing impromptu games of street hockey. There’s the same grocery store and same Tim Hortons and everywhere she goes there are people who know her. They smile and congratulate her on making the postseason before they wince and smile sadly and change the subject.
It’s suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to her dad.
A few days after she arrives home, she eats dinner with her parents, and everything seems rushed. She doesn’t get it until her dad herds her to the TV and sits her down.
“No,” she says even as her dad turns the Montreal-Boston game on. She doesn’t want to watch this, the pain of her elimination still sharp in her chest.
Her dad hands her a notebook. “Find three things each team does well and three things they need to improve on.”
She wants to toss the notebook, wants to argue she isn’t a kid anymore. Instead, she grits her teeth and takes the pen he holds out to her.
“You need to learn,” he continues. “If you were better, you’d still be playing.”
She watches Dima warm up and is hit with a wave of jealousy. The camera pans to Ducasse and she narrows her eyes.
She calls Dima to congratulate him on his series-winning goal in Game Seven against Montreal. She calls again, five games later, after Boston loses to Toronto.
Her dad makes her watch the Conference Finals and take notes on Matty’s style of play and how she can be more like him. Then, they watch the Maple Cup Finals.
It takes six games but Toronto wins. She watches the Griffons toss their gloves and their sticks, their helmets skittering across the ice as they crash into each other. Some of them are shouting. Others are crying. They grab everyone in reach to hug them.
When it all settles down, the Maple Cup is brought out. Sophie’s breath catches at the sight of it. One day, she’ll hold it, lift it above her head, and listen to the crowd around her cheer.
But today, she’s stuck on her couch in Thunder Bay as Matty takes his turn with the Cup. One of his teammates passes it to him and he stares up at it, stunned, as if he can’t believe it’s real. He kisses the shiny metal and hoists it high above his head and takes a lap of the rink.
Next year, that will be me.
About the Author
K.R. Collins went to college in Pennsylvania where she learned to write and fell in love with hockey. When she isn’t working or writing, she watches hockey games and claims it’s for research.
Twitter: @kcollins1394
Other books by this author
Breaking the Ice
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