by Megan Shull
Finally The Captain takes a deep breath. “Go,” is all he says.
“Mallsy, got the flow chopped!” I hear it as I approach the doors, Jack’s huge hockey bag strapped over my shoulder. I’m clutching his two sticks.
I glance back. The voice is coming from a tall, bright-eyed kid with stringy, long blond hair sticking out of his baseball hat. The closer he gets, the bigger his smile grows. “’Sup, dangler! Nice buzz cut, looks good, bud. Getting ready for game day! Sick style, Mallsy. I love it, man.” He grabs the door of the rink and holds it open for me.
I guess I’m lucky everybody loves Jack. I grin awkwardly at Happy Blond Kid and focus on fitting through the door with this huge bag. Inside, the air hits my face. It’s cold in here!
Happy Blond Kid walks a few steps behind me. “Time to do work,” he says.
I glance back over my shoulder and give him one of those guy nods and keep my eyes focused straight ahead, walking down the hallway.
“Mallsy!” Happy Blond Kid calls out to me. “Where you goin’, bro?” He laughs. He’s stopped in front of a door a few yards back. “Unreal.” He smiles and shakes his head as I stop and walk back toward him. “Ha! Classic!”
When I walk into the crowded locker room, nobody even looks up. It’s like an entire world in here of wide-awake, laughing, chattering, bare-chested, smiling guys. There’s music blaring from speakers attached to the wall. Every guy is sitting, half-dressed, side by side on wooden benches. Hockey bags cover the floor. And man. It stinks in here. I have to concentrate hard to keep my nose from scrunching up.
I sit down in the first empty seat I see and throw the bag down on the floor.
The kid next to me looks up under his baseball cap.
“That’s Bugsy’s spot, bro.”
“Oh! Sorry.” I jump up and move to the only other empty seat across the room. I have to sidestep a zillion hockey bags, Jack’s huge bag of gear slung across my back. Okay, I think, throwing it down again. Settling back into the seat, I glance nervously around.
This is going to be . . . interesting, I think, and almost laugh out loud. I have absolutely no idea how to put this stuff on.
With the music blaring and guys talking and laughing and tossing things at each other, I come up with a pretty decent plan: my own solo game of Simon Says. Only nobody is calling out moves. It’s just me watching Happy Blond Kid across the room. I copy every move he makes.
He strips down to his boxers. I do too.
He reaches into his bag and fishes out—
A jockstrap.
You can’t not laugh. I try not to stare as I watch him slip it over his boxers. Then? I copy exactly what he does. And voilà! I am now standing with a hard shield protecting Jack’s, um . . .
Stuff.
Next is this strap thingie that looks complicated. What the heck is this? I put it on—it’s like a belt with these hanging buttons and hooks. Whatever. I have no idea. I just play the game and copy the next move. Happy Blond Kid sits back down on the bench, pulls big gold socks over his shin pads, first the left, then the right. He stands and—oh, that’s what it’s for. I almost nod. The hooks on the belt hold up the socks. This isn’t as hard as it looks. Happy Blond Kid steps into a pair of giant pants that look like padded shorts. I find Jack’s and step into mine too.
Okay. Next. Skates. First the right, then the left. I start at the bottom and pull the laces one at a time, work my way up to the top, pull real hard, and tie them at the top like a sneaker. Okay. That’s it, right? I look around. No. Not yet. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Jersey. I slip the jersey over my head, one arm at a time, only it gets hung up on the shoulder pad. Oh, great. I kind of laugh. I’m sitting in a room with twenty guys, with a jersey stuck up around my eyes.
“I got you, Mallsy!” says the kid next to me, yanking the caught-up jersey down.
“Thanks, man,” I say. I grab Jack’s helmet. Throw it on my head. Slip on his gloves and stand in my skates.
I feel like I’m going into a battle. I follow the guys. And it’s Happy Blond Kid who looks at me funny right before we file out.
“Mallsy, better bring your stick.” He laughs. “What’s up with you, dude?”
“Oh, thanks,” I say through the face mask, embarrassed. I grab one of Jack’s sticks, clutching it like a sword in my leather-palmed glove. And that’s it. I fall back in line. Somebody’s dad smacks us on the back as we file by. “Keep it rollin’, boys!” he barks, half smiling. “Show ’em what you’re made of!” We march out like an army.
I’m the last guy out of the room.
46
JACK
WHEN I WAKE UP IN Elle’s big bed, sun streaming in the window, the comforter pulled up to my chin, I honestly feel better than I have in a long time. I curl up and dig the sleep out of the corners of my eyes. I feel like I haven’t slept that well in forever. I didn’t toss or turn, or wake up sweaty and worried like I usually do. I just slept. Long and deep. And opened my eyes, and it feels good—
It feels good for about three seconds. Then?
I remember.
I remember everything.
The look in my dad’s eyes. The fact that I’m missing hockey for the first time in my entire life. What a complete wreck I was last night. I was crying so hard. The messy kind. Big, gasping breaths. I couldn’t even speak. I remember Summer tucking me in. Sitting with me. I didn’t say a word. All I did was cry. I remember sobbing my eyes out before I finally fell asleep.
Oh, man. I flip over and smash my face into the sheets. Breathe in the clean.
Less than a day to go.
I’m going to miss this bed. My mind begins to fill with the obvious thoughts: safe to say, I’m probably grounded. I’ll probably have to transfer to Saint Joe’s. I picture myself in the tie and that dumb navy-blue blazer, tan pants. Elle’s brave! Man. She got into the truck. She went home. I can’t believe she did it. Ballsy move. Took some jam! This makes me laugh. Well, obviously Elle doesn’t really have—
Ha. Yeah. Don’t want to think about that. I close my eyes again. I’m so exhausted. I don’t think I ever want to get out of this bed.
“Ellie, hon?”
I hear a light tapping on the door and look up.
“Sweetheart.” Summer pokes her head in, then enters, sitting down quietly on the bed. She reaches out and places her hand against my face. “Hey, honey,” she says softly. “How are you feeling? A little bit better?”
“A little,” I answer slowly. My voice sounds scratchy.
Summer looks at me gently and takes a deep breath. “At some point, sweetheart, we’re going to have to talk about what exactly happened, but for now?” She pauses for a long time, smiling at me with her eyes. She leans in and kisses me on the forehead, keeping her lips there for a long moment. “Oh, honey pie,” she whispers. “Sometimes you just need your mom.”
Downstairs. I walk into the kitchen wearing Elle’s big fuzzy slippers and slip into a seat at the table by the window. It felt good to wash my face and pull my hair back. I’m wearing baggy sweats and a perfectly broken-in Boston College soccer T-shirt—I vaguely remember shedding the clothes from the party and putting these on last night. I watch Summer by the stove, flipping pancakes until she looks over and sees me sitting at the table.
“Oh, hey, hon,” she says, turning to me, smiling. She’s dressed in the same yoga outfit from the day I met her. “Did you take a nice bath?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head and manage a slight smile.
“No? Well, did you at least splash your face? That’s always a good step.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Well.” Summer grins. “I hope you’re hungry, I made enough for an army!”
The word “army” makes me think of my dad. And I’m pretty sure a worried look fills my eyes.
I wish I was at hockey right now.
I glance up at the clock. The boys are probably just leaving the rink, bags on their shoulders, walking across the parking lot, laughin
g, joking. No better way to start the day than skating. I love the feeling after a good skate. Going back to the house, working out with my brothers. Every Sunday.
Summer hands me a glass of orange juice. “Sweetie? Hey, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Thanks,” I say, and lift the glass to my mouth. I’m suddenly so thirsty I guzzle it all in one long gulp.
“So listen, are you up for soccer? Because if you are, we have to leave in—” Summer pauses and glances at the clock. “About an hour. Look, honey,” she goes on. “Last night was a lot. I don’t know what’s going on. But I’m going to leave it up to you. I trust your judgment. And like I said, we really do need to talk about what happened. But we can do it after soccer.”
I look up at her. She’s just, like, so nice. Her eyes are so bright. I love Summer. I know that sounds weird because, like, I hardly know her. It’s just—
It feels like I do.
“Honey?” she says, still standing, smiling down softly. Waiting for me to speak.
“I’ll go,” I answer quietly. I try and smile too. At least Elle told me it’s okay with her. It’ll be good to sweat. Good to move. I don’t even care if I see any of the girls from last night. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m just going to keep my mouth shut and try to have fun.
“I’m really glad to hear you’re up for soccer.” Summer breaks into a huge smile. “And if you’re going to play,” she goes on, walking back to the stove, “you’re going to have to eat.”
She returns to the table with a plate full of stacked, steaming pancakes. They look so good. They may or may not be in the shape of a heart! Summer’s so awesome. I unfold the napkin on my lap and take a good look around. Elle’s kitchen is pretty much the opposite of ours. It smells like butter and sugar, or like—vanilla. Vanilla cake. And everything is bright and warm. There’s flowers on the table. Summer brings herself a plate too and sits down across from me.
I wait for her before I eat. That’s what we used to do with my—
She looks at me. “Dig in!” Her eyes are really, really pretty. They look exactly like Elle’s. Same freckles, same long, deep-red hair hanging down past her shoulders, parted in the middle. And I know this sounds weird, but I just look at her and I practically feel like crying all over again.
“Thank you,” I say, taking my first bite, then quickly shoveling in another.
“I’m glad to see that smile,” Summer says. She winks through the yellow-and-pink flowers. And the two of us eat in silence. But it’s not the empty kind of quiet. If that makes any sense at all.
47
ELLE
I FOLLOW THE REST OF the boys down the long hall, marching single file in our skates and equipment/armor, across a rolled-out black rubber mat, sticks in hand. Everyone’s hyped, shouting out random let’s-get-fired-up-type cheers in deep he-man sounding voices.
“Make a little noise, boys!”
“Time to get after it! Let’s go, boys!”
“Battle it, boys! Can’t wait for tomorrow!”
I stop at the gate right before I step onto the ice. It’s a tiny step down, and I freeze and brace myself. I feel like a scared baby deer, if you’ve ever seen one. I have the serious jitters; my legs are shaking, I’m trembling—I’m pretty sure my feet are going to come out from under me as soon as I step onto the ice.
What am I doing? This is insane! is what’s going through my head. And right when I am actually considering turning around and making something up, this big man dressed in an all-black Boston Junior Bruins warm-up suit and a shiny black helmet walks up behind me and scares me half to death!
“Let’s go, Mallsy! Be ready!” he barks. He’s chomping on gum. He has a whistle around his neck. “Get out there and show ’em what ya got. Dominate, Malloy! Let’s see what you’re made of!”
Um. Yeah. Look, I don’t know what the deal is with guys hitting each other. But what comes next is another smack on the back. Whack! I almost choke. I’m not expecting it! This springs into motion the next range of events. Let me spell it out so you can (please) not laugh.
The slap on the back, the push, the forward lean, the step down onto the clean white ice—
It’s so crazy! I don’t even have to think! I dig in with my right foot and push off. Only instead of falling on my face like I thought? Jack’s body goes into some kind of effortless autopilot! Everything just, like, clicks! I don’t have to even think. I can hear the ice crunch under my strides, first my left foot, then my right. I feel the cold air in my throat—I can see my breath—oh, wow! The nervousness just vanishes. If you could see my eyes through the cage on my face mask, you’d see I’m smiling so hard! Jack’s good! He’s fast!
I can’t believe it took us this long to figure it out. Jack has my body, and I have his: I can do anything he can do!
Everything on the ice is easy. It flows. I dig into the ice, push off the edge, and just glide. Push and glide. I start to go faster and faster. It feels so smooth. I follow the rest of the boys. I take big, powerful strides around the surface. Guys are stretching, playing with the pucks, getting warmed up—I can’t stress how easy it is! And not just skating: stick-handling the puck! It’s like I have a string attached to the puck. It never falls off. I pull it side to side, from the left to the right. One side to the other. It’s one fluid movement. I flow through the first part of practice.
And when the big guy in the black helmet blows the whistle and calls us to the center, I’m the first one in. I take a knee just like the other guys do.
The coach chomps on his gum and spits on the ice before he talks. He waits until the boys settle down. While he’s waiting, I look up in the stands. I see The Captain looking back, watching me. My heart begins to pound, and I’m not gonna lie. I’m more nervous right now than I’ve ever been. It’s like I’m suddenly not worried about anything but right here, right now. I don’t want to mess up. And kneeling here, with all the guys, I feel confident, almost proud. I can see why Jack loves this. He’s really good. He’s playing with the best.
The coach looks right at me as he talks. “Boys, we’ve got our first game tomorrow, and we have to practice today like we’re going to play tomorrow. I want to see intensity. Win our battles. Execute. If we do that today, we’ll win our game tomorrow.” He pauses and looks for a moment around the team. Again his eyes stop and zero in on me. “All right, men! Let’s go!”
For the next fifty minutes I am focusing with everything I’ve got. Warm-up drills, skating drills, passing, warming up the goalies with shots.
I line up the puck and I shoot, following through. Somehow my body knows what to do.
“Mallsy, nice rocket!” I hear.
With ten minutes to go, I’m basically in love with hockey. I’ve never had so much fun. Jack’s so good and so strong and quick. It’s almost like he can dance on his skates, the way his body moves with so much grace. The last drill is a shootout with a chaser. The coach dumps the puck in the corner. Two guys chase after it; the guy who gets to the puck first tries to score. I wait my turn. I can hardly hold it in. I’m so happy, I glance up at The Captain. I swear I almost want to wave!
I step up to the line. It’s me against a guy who’s a lot bigger than Jack.
“You boys ready?” asks the coach. But before I nod yes, he fires the puck deep in the corner. “Get after it, Mallsy!”
The other kid has a jump on me, but I chase it. We both head into the corner at full speed, and I beat him to the puck. I get there first. The battle is on. I’m not even thinking; my body just moves. I’m reaching for the puck when the kid cross-checks me hard across the chest. It’s not just a shove. It’s a blast. It sets me back. The kid starts chirping me right there in the corner as we fight for the puck. “You want to go, rookie?” He gives me another shot, slashing me on the arm, checking me into the boards, cracking my shoulder. My first instinct is to just shove him back. But I know that would be dumb, to let this kid draw me in to that. Instead I battle for the puck, dig it out
, and head straight for the net. Fake the goalie by shifting the puck to the wide left, and when he bites—cut back and slide the puck past him into the open net.
“Yes!” I whisper to myself. I try not to celebrate. “Be humble,” Jett said. I try and act like I score all the time. But man, did that feel good, to take control.
The kid skates up behind me as we fall back into the line.
“What are you doing, rookie?” He gets right up in my face, stares at me and shakes his head. “Why’d you come at me like that? We have a game tomorrow, man! You want to go, man, you want to throw bones?” He gives me a little shove again.
What? He came at me! Kid’s got a chip on his shoulder, is what first runs through my mind. But something happens in this moment, and I take a step back. I give him a nod—I shrug it off. It’s like Jett and Gunner and Stryker are all here with me now—Scared dogs bark the loudest. Don’t have time for haters. Stay focused. Keep your head up. Keep going.
And for the rest of the practice, I feel a jump in my step. I feel stronger, faster. I play with an edge. And when the coach blows the whistle at the end, I’m actually wishing it wasn’t over. I’m so pumped! I feel like I can do anything. I feel so strong. Time flew by! It was like—
I fell into a trance.
It was like magic.
We take a knee at center ice. I’m breathing pretty hard. I feel the sweat dripping down the side of my face. The coach chomps on his gum and just looks at us for the longest time. All you hear is quiet, and the buzz of the lights overhead.
“Boys,” he finally says, pausing to spit. “I normally don’t like to single one guy out, but today I saw something and—” The coach stops again, his eyes narrow. It gets real quiet. My heart starts pounding.
Maybe I did something wrong?
When he starts back up he’s looking at me. “If we can play with the heart and intensity Mallsy showed today, we’ll be all right. Tough, tough kid. There’s no quit in him.” The coach stops and gives me a nod and a smile, and I feel all the guys look at me. They begin clapping their sticks against the ice.