Playing for Keeps
By Janet Gurtler
Copyright © 2012 by Janet Gurtler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Janet Gurtler.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For Larry. For Keeps.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE - ZACK ATTACK
CHAPTER TWO - SUPERSTUD
CHAPTER THREE - SCURVY DOG
CHAPTER FOUR - YOU REALLY ARE A HOCKEY PLAYER
CHAPTER FIVE - THE WIN GENE
CHAPTER SIX - WEIRD OR DIFFERENT?
CHAPTER SEVEN - SUCK IT UP
CHAPTER EIGHT - SCREW HOW IT LOOKS
CHAPTER NINE - FEELING PRESSURE
CHAPTER TEN - TYPICAL TEENAGE BOY
CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE FULL STORY
CHAPTER TWELVE - ZACK’S BACK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
ZACK ATTACK
Among other things, being the new guy means having to find new chemistry. And the best on-ice chemistry is kind of like finding the perfect girl to hook up with. You can make do with others, but when you connect with the right person, there’s nothing like it.
This arena smelled like they all do. Like popcorn and sweat. For a second as I headed to the change room, my thoughts drifted to Claire. I missed her, despite everything. But we were over. Very over.
“Ouch. Hey, watch it,” a female voice yelped.
It caught me off guard for a second, until I looked up. I’d crashed straight into a girl. She held a book open and was walking and reading, obviously not paying attention either. She almost pierced my skin with the expression in her eyes as she glared at me. Nothing about her looked like in belonged in the hockey arena.
I couldn’t help smiling. She looked scrappy. She wasn’t tiny, maybe five six, but in spite of her height, she appeared small. Thin. Maybe 110 pounds on a bloated day. Her clothes hung on her, like she’d raided her big sister’s closet. Her much bigger sister. She wore a long black skirt, Doc Martens, and a sweater that hung on her thin shoulders, where her black hair, obviously straight from a bottle, rested.
Everything about her reeked rebel. I looked at her eyes. They flashed with distaste, a crazy pale blue color, kind of shiny, almost gentle, even with all the thick black eyeliner circling each eye. Not a pothead, I guessed; just making a fashion statement, maybe? Even her harsh clothes, hair, and make-up couldn’t disguise the good looks this girl had been born with.
She clutched her thick novel to her chest, the fold about half way through it. I tried to see the title but I couldn’t make it out.
“What are you reading?” I asked shifting my equipment bag on my shoulder.
“A book,” she snapped, moving it out of my sight.
“Which one? I read too you know.” I tried to see her book again, but she tucked it under her arm.
What she didn’t know was that I love to read. Always have. It’s my escape from the world when I’m bored. Some kids do video games; I prefer a more intellectual pastime. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
She stared at me like I was a big self-absorbed jock tormenting a mere mortal. For a moment I wanted to reach up and make sure my bangs covered the scar on my forehead. A train accident—Thomas the Tank Engine, actually. He was in my hand when I tripped down the stairs when I was four. Lots of blood and screaming. Five stitches and a permanent scar.
“Nothing that would interest you,” she snapped. “My IQ is bigger than my shoe size, you know. Excuse me, I need to get by.”
I couldn’t help it--I laughed and peeked at her feet. “I hope so.”
She scrunched her eyes at me. Then she pulled her book from under her arm and shoved it towards me, showing me the title. Looking for Alaska.
I laughed again as she tucked it back under her arm. She was refreshing. Even I get a little sick of the kind of girls who usually hang around hockey rinks. We called them Pucks in Kirkdale. Blondes and brunettes with tight clothes and made-up eyes. Pucks, hockey groupies, whatever. I kind of thought girls should have better things to do with their time. Giggling and hanging around boys who weren’t very nice to them didn’t strike me as overly ambitious.
I guess snagging a hockey player for a boyfriend can heighten the social status for some girls. Most of those girls don’t get boyfriends though. Far as I sawy, they got used. Maybe they even get a disease. Gross. I couldn’t imagine falling for a girl like that.
“I’ve read that book,” I told her.
She stared at me with her black-rimmed eyes and I didn’t have to ask to know that she thought I was lying.
“You think I’m too dumb to read?” I asked, grinning because I know for a fact that the opposite is true.
Her eyes went from the tip of my head to the Converse high-top runners I left unlaced on my overgrown feet. I reached up and adjusted my bangs.
“Good one.” She stormed off.
I watched her go, smiling in spite of myself. Then I turned and reported to the dressing room, plunking down my hockey bag and pulling on my equipment without hardly a word to any of the other players. I couldn’t get that girl out of my head.
When I got out on the ice, my stick smoked. The captain, Mac, had a serious knack for hitting my sweet spot. Too bad he hated passing—and me. I knew his type. Threatened by real talent. If he’d work with me instead of against me, it would make for an interesting year for both of us. But I had my doubts about him.
At one point during a quick shift change, I flew off the bench, caught the center, stole the puck, and poked it in the net before the goalie even blinked. The other guys knew they were dealing with the son of a legend now. Hockey flowed in my veins. I tried to deny it sometimes, but the call lingered in my gut, even when I wasn’t on the ice.
Before the end of practice, one of the players came after me, high sticked me and we ended up in a scrap. It didn’t bother me so much. Hockey players were pretty much the same everywhere. They wanted to see if they could shake me up. Test me. The new guy.
The coach let everyone go except me and the guy I’d exchanged knuckles with. We did some extra scrimmages and then headed to the dressing room. The other guys had already cleared out.
I sat down. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to, but I did. I shifted my gaze over as I untied my skates. He kept staring at me from across the locker room, his navy boxers blending in with the chipped blue paint on the bench. He pulled off his shoulder pads and continued to stare. I shook my head and returned to my skate laces.
He tossed his pads on the cement floor and stood. I braced myself, but then he grinned. “So. You throw a pretty good body check, Zack Attack.”
A new nickname. Not a bad thing, but I didn’t drop my guard though as I tugged off my skates. I delivered the tough guy look I’d perfected in front of my bathroom mirror. I practice some weird-ass things in the privacy of my own home. Wherever home happens to be that year.
“Hey, man, lighten up. You were awesome out there. I got tired trying to keep up.” He stretched and grabbed a wrinkly Nike t-shirt from his bag.
I watched him smile. He didn’t look vindictive. Just nosy. He sat again, and started to pull on his blue jeans.
I glanced around the locker room while I pulled my own clothes from my hockey bag. Yellowish paint flaked off the walls. The benches were old and carved up with
graffiti. It smelled like crap. This was the locker room I’d spend many hours in, over the coming hockey season. Call me picky, but I didn’t care for it much.
“How come this arena doesn’t even have showers?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we like our boys rancid in Haletown. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have all the showers you want in your future.” He studied me, as if I were a curious science experiment that may or may not have gone wrong.
I stared back, careful not to reveal anything.
Then he grinned. Winked. “Hey. Come on. You? NHL. Name in glaring lights and all that.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He rolled his eyes and turned away, probably writing me off as arrogant. I studied him for a second.
“My mom’s the one who wants it so badly,” I told him, surprising myself. Usually I don’t tell people about that.
He glanced back and then grinned. “Your mom’s hot. She a lesbian? We have another lesbian in town.” He sounded hopeful. “That other lady her girlfriend?”
“My mom is not hot. Or a lesbian. The other lady is my aunt—her sister.”
Aunt Diane would laugh if she heard. A lesbian. She’d crack up. Mom would love being called hot. Gross.
“So your dad died a long time ago,” he said.
I didn’t answer, since he didn’t sound like he wanted a response. People knew about my dad. How he died.
“You’re going to make the team, you know. Don’t worry about the scrap. Coach Cal likes a little attitude.” He started stuffing equipment into his hockey bag.
I nodded, pretty sure I would make the team too, no matter who made the real decisions in this particular hockey league, or what the parents wanted. I’d broken a sweat to prove myself, poured it on to wow the guys a little. And the coach.
“I don’t see your parents anywhere. Why you so interested in mine?” I asked.
He laughed. “My parents don’t actually watch any of my practices. Or even my games. They work. A lot.”
He grinned. “My name’s Josh.”
“Lucky you.”
Josh laughed out loud, walked over and held out his hand. We clunked knuckles. “Yeah. Lucky me. Listen, man. Sorry about the high-stick thing. Have to test the new talent out sometimes. Captain’s orders. We cool?”
I lifted a shoulder. I didn’t know his agenda yet. Or Mac’s--the team captain.
Josh picked up his hockey bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Must suck being the new kid.”
“Could be worse.” Like I could be five two and skinny, instead of over six feet, with good hair and smoking hockey skills. I don’t generally brag, but I know. It gives me built-in acceptability, at least on the fringes.
Josh shifted his feet to balance the weight of the hockey bag. He tilted his head and nodded. “Cool.” He turned to go. “See ya ‘round, Zack Attack.”
I sat in the quiet room, breathing. Coach Cal popped his balding head in the locker room just then, interrupting my thoughts. He clutched a clipboard close to his Haletown Husky jacket, as if lurkers might read the notes he’d jotted down about the practice. “What are you doing? They want to close up.”
“Two minutes.”
He nodded. “You looked good out there, kid. Try and stay out of trouble in the future.” He ducked back out the door.
Reluctantly, I got up and left the solitude. Mom and Aunt Diane hovered near the locker room door.
“So. Did the coach say anything?” Mom rushed forward, grabbing at my equipment bag as if to take it from me.
I glared down at her. I tower over her by a foot, and outweigh her by at least forty pounds. Yet she still wanted to carry my equipment for me.
“Mom. I got it.”
“So. You going to make the team, Zachary?” Aunt Diane punched me on the arm, bouncing with excitement about me playing on her home team, smack in the middle of small-town Montana.
I rolled the hockey bag off my shoulder and threw it on the ground. “I’m going to get a Coke, okay?”
Aunt Diane started to follow me towards the concession, but Mom grabbed her by the arm and held her back.
“Of course he’ll make the team, Diane. He just needs some space. He’s the new kid again. He’s probably nervous about fitting in,” I heard her say.
I didn’t bother looking back or trying to contradict them. I wasn’t nervous. What was the point? I’d worked it. Besides, moving was old. Mac, the captain, already hated me and I hadn’t met anyone I could relate to yet, except maybe Josh, and he’d high-sticked me.
I walked to the concession stand in search of something to quench my thirst and spotted the surly girl dressed in black leaning against the wall. Her face was buried in her book. As if she felt my gaze she glanced up, snapped her book shut and stomped off.
I watched her go, and then a voice behind me spoke.
“That’s my sister,” Josh said following me to the concession.
“She hates hockey players.”
“No kidding.” I could kind of relate sometimes. “How come?” I turned to look at him.
He shrugged, as if the reason was not only unimportant but also uninteresting.
“What’s she doing at a hockey rink, if she hates hockey so much?”
“My parents make her come. She has to drive me.” He smiled down at his feet for a moment. “I lost my license.” He grinned again. “She’s the family presence, I guess. Since they’re always so busy. She’s been hanging out in hockey rinks since we were little kids.” He peered after her. “I’d say she’s pissed off.”
I nodded and ordered a Coke from the girl behind the counter. “She’s my twin.”
I looked at him. Blond hair. Blue eyes. He was a couple inches shorter than me, but broader. Wholesome jock, through and through. I glanced to where his sister had disappeared.
“I think they switched her with another baby at birth,” he said.
I nodded in agreement.
“What’s her name?” I kept my voice flat, uninterested.
“Jane.”
I hid my smile. She didn’t look like a Jane. “She go to Jefferson High?”
“Yup. Hangs out with a freak though. It’s kind of embarrassing. But, she’s my sister, so what can you do?”
I had no idea. Being an only child has advantages and disadvantages. Sibling rivalry, or even sibling tolerance, was not something I understood from experience. A lot of things I had to learn on my own.
The redhead at the concession stand handed me a Coke, batted her eyelashes, and gave me a bright, big-toothed smile. “On the house,” she said.
Behind me, Josh groaned. “Cut the crap, Hailey. He’s not going out with you just because you gave him a free drink.”
The girl’s face fell and she turned a color close to her hair shade.
“Shut up, Josh.” She turned and hurried away from the counter, her auburn curls swinging back and forth down her back.
“Hey, I need a drink too!” he shouted.
She raised her middle finger up behind her round backside. She wore a pair of low-rise jeans and her hips flowed over the top of the pants.
He shrugged at me. “Serves me right for sleeping with the help.”
I raised my eyebrows and glanced behind the counter at Hailey as she frantically wiped at the drink machine. She didn’t seem like his type. A little plump, with wild red curls, definitely cute but she wasn’t the Barbie doll type I imagined Josh taking out. Hailey ignored us, moving to shuffle around some chocolate bars as far away from us as she could be. She glanced up and I smiled at her, raising my Coke cup in a toast. She blushed again and kept busy. I felt a little sorry for her. Probably a nice enough girl, just trying to fit in.
Josh’s attention moved to a group of girls standing by the arena entrance. Three of them. Skinny. Tall. Not dressed warmly enough for a freezing hockey rink. They all sported tiny t-shirts and jeans with oversized belts. Long hair. Two brunettes, one stunning blonde.
“There’s m
y sweet Candy.” He made a weird slurping noise. ”Duty calls, Zack. See ya.” He swaggered towards the girls.
The blonde played with her hair and preened even more as he approached.
“That’s Candy Clark,” said Hailey from behind me. “Josh has the hots for her.”
I turned to look at her. She’d moved back to the counter. I took a sip of my drink and glanced back, watching Josh plant a kiss on Candy’s cheek while she fidgeted. The other girls attempted to look uninterested, despite being completely aware of the attention they were getting from most of the adults and kids in the area.
“Mona’s the resident slut at Jefferson High, and Carly is the queen,” Hailey told me.
“And you’re the town gossip?” I turned back to her, grinning. She leaned against the counter watching Josh and the girls, totally ignoring my dig.
“I’m Zack.”
“I know.” She didn’t look at me.
One thing about being the new guy, everyone seems to know who I am.
“You’re the best hockey player on the team,” she told me, still watching Josh and Candy.
I grinned, but didn’t disagree. “You know already?”
She finally looked me in the eyes and smiled back. “I’ve been working here since I was thirteen. You’re the best hockey player I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks. I’ve been playing since I was a kid. My dad played too. I guess it’s in my blood.”
She smiled again. Her grin was crooked, her mouth turned up more on the right, but she was pretty in an offbeat way.
“I know that, too. Jeremy Chase.”
I nodded. My dad. Jeremy Chase. NHL star in the early ’90s. All-around hero, except he’d screwed my mom.
“Anything else you know about me?”
“You play guitar. Oh, and you got your heart broken by some girl in some other small-town U.S.A.”
I laughed out loud. “And where did you hear all that?”
She shrugged. “Word gets around. My sister shops at your aunt’s store, where your mom now works.” She glanced over to my mom and aunt, deep in conversation close to Josh and the girls.
PLAYING FOR KEEPS Page 1