“When am I going to be able to shoot?”
Oh my God, I’m totally whining like a baby. What did I expect? Of course he’s not going to let me shoot on the first day.
He shakes his head and grins. “We’ll see how you do today. If you can get up and back ten times without falling flat on your face, you can take a shot.”
Coach skates away from me and starts yelling at Flores to get out of the zone. I’m kinda shell-shocked, but also feeling really sorry for Flores. At least I won’t get yelled at for not being able to skate.
“Everyone! Give me twenty red line–blue line sprints!” Coach yells. “You too, Flores!”
I came all this way, lied to my parents about being at the library, struggled into the disgusting used gear and he’s not even going to let me take a shot. I slam my glove against the board and push off the wall, determined to show Coach and the team what I can do. My balance is off with the gear. I have no peripheral vision under the helmet. And I’m pretty sure Lori tied my skates too tight, because my left foot is tingling.
“Go, Spaulding!” she screams from the stands.
In reply, someone yells, “Beware, Pizza Princess on the ice!”
Everyone laughs, and my face burns. I whip my head around, but I can’t tell who said it and it nearly sends me sprawling because I’m not used to the way this helmet fits.
“Cut the crap, Johnson,” Carter yells from the goal. “Have you seen the girl skate? You better watch yourself if she can shoot half as good as she skates!”
I wave at Carter to thank him, but he scowls and looks away. Damn. I put my head down and keep skating.
I don’t know Johnson, but the next second Jake smashes someone into the boards and I’m pretty sure he’s giving a lecture about trash-talking your teammates.
I shoot an encouraging smile at Flores as I pass him, but I know it’s impossible to see the expression on my face behind the cage of my helmet. “You got this, Jimmy,” I whisper, hoping he can hear me.
“Eff you,” he says, and pulls ahead of me.
I’m not sure what I expected, but this definitely isn’t it.
About halfway to the line on my fourth lap, I lose my balance and my right skate goes completely out from under me. It feels like an eternity in the air, before I land on my butt. I haven’t tripped over my own feet on the ice since I was eight.
“Crap.”
Jake is right there, pulling me up. “Don’t worry about it. We all fall a crap load during practice.”
I glance around to see if anyone saw him help me—surprisingly there’s no jeering about my lack of grace. Of course they are all busy pretending to look the other way. “Coach told me I had to make it back and forth ten times from the wall, or he wouldn’t let me shoot today.”
“Just keep at it.” Jake whispers. “Chances are he didn’t see you fall. And even if he did, if it looks like you’re trying and committed, he’ll let you take the shot.” He leans over to demonstrate. “The trick is to bend your knees. Keep your head up and use your stick for balance if you need to.”
“What the hell!” yells Carter from the net. “Way to keep your skates under you!”
To preserve my sanity, I pretend he’s yelling at Flores again and pick up my stick. I fall twice more, but it gets easier. Jake’s advice really helps. By the end of practice, I don’t actually notice the equipment that much anymore. Coach lets me take three shots. They all hit the net dead center and I can’t help but pump my arm in the air on the third.
“Carter,” Coach yells. “Go back in there and block.”
Carter skates back to the net and assumes what looks like his crouching tiger position. I line up the way the tutorial on YouTube suggested. This is how it’s going to be in a real game. The opposing team isn’t going to let me shoot a puck at an empty goal. Of course they’ll also have defense trying to stop me from shooting.
Carter deflects my first shot, but just barely. Cheers erupt from the bench. I hear variations of “Way to go, Carter!”
I change the position of my hands on the stick and shoot again. This time, I try a wrist shot and aim it over Carter’s glove.
It goes in.
Thank God for YouTube.
“Whoa, great shot Spaulding!” Applause and cheers from the guys, for me this time.
But a few voices are berating the goalie. “What the hell, Carter? You just got scored on by a girl!”
I slam my stick into ice and glare at the bench, trying to figure out who the haters are. I don’t know why I didn’t expect this reaction from them. I was too worried about my dad; it just never occurred to me I’d have a problem with the team, too. But if I prove I can play, maybe it won’t be too hard to win them over.
That is, if I decide to play.
When I skate toward the bench, most of them are still cheering. Except Johnson, who won’t look at me. On my way off the ice, I get a few slaps on the back that nearly knock me over, and a bunch of “great jobs” as we toddle toward the locker room. Jake jogs over to give me a high five. “That was awesome.”
That’s more like it.
“C’mon in here for a minute, Spaulding,” the Coach says. “We just like to do a quick pep talk before we hit the showers.”
The men’s locker room.
This should be interesting.
Chapter Eight
As soon as I set foot into the men’s locker room, I’m immediately knocked backward by the holy-crap-I-have-never-smelled-anything-more-rank-than-this smell. It’s a combination of body odor, sweaty socks, and wet dog. It’s like no one has washed their equipment. Ever. All at the same time. Multiplied by a thousand. I gag a couple of times.
How can they stand this stench?
I’m staring at the floor as guys start to strip. Johnson gets all the way down to bare chest before Coach clears his throat. “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?”
At the word “ladies,” every one of them stops undressing as though just remembering I’m in the room. I back up against the door, so I can make a quick getaway, and casually cover my nose and mouth with the back of my hand.
I pull off my helmet and try to smile, but I’m afraid it probably looks like I’m trying to hold back vomit.
Which I am.
“I’d like to welcome our newest player.” Coach gestures to me.
I wave and then quickly put my hand back over my mouth.
“Penelope Spaulding is a second-generation hockey player, replacing Matt Pearson,” he says.
“What?” Johnson says. “She’s going to play with us all the time?” Without his gear on, Johnson is still huge—his abs are ripped. This kid definitely throws off the curve. He’s got to outweigh the other guys by fifty pounds of muscle. He’s leaning against the far wall and glares at me. I have no idea what’s up with him.
Carter seems to have bounced back from his earlier embarrassment. He’s straddling the wooden bench in the middle of the room, looking comfortable. He winks at me, but he doesn’t say anything. I decide to keep my eye on Carter; aside from Jake, he might be my best ally.
The rest of them look at me like deer caught in the headlights.
“Didn’t you guys see her skate? She’s amazing. Fast.” Jake smiles encouragingly. I try not to stare. “What’s the issue? The Nashua Night Dragons have girls.” He makes eye contact with everyone. “Anyone have a problem?”
Some grumbling, but no one objects again.
No one warned them. Knowing they got blindsided sucks.
Coach clears his throat. “I’d like you all to give her our team welcome.”
Jake gestures for them all to stand and he makes a big show of being a conductor. The guys join him and start clapping and stomping their feet in unison.
Stomp-stomp. Clap-clap. “The Rats are in the house!”
“The Rats are in the house,” they all respond to Jake’s call.
“Heigh-ho the derry-o, the Rats are in the house!”
I start to applaud poli
tely, but there’s a second verse. Of course.
“You better hide the cheese.” Stomp-stomp. Clap-clap.
“You better hide the cheese.”
“Heigh-ho the derry-o, you better hide the cheese!” The stomping reaches a fever pitch and they wrap it all up with a cheer of, “Rink Rats! Rink Rats! Rink Rats!” Then they make a sort of roaring noise and throw their helmets into the air. It’s very testosterone-y.
I laugh out loud before I realize they are totally serious. I clap enthusiastically. “That was … um … really something special.”
Coach Walsh looks like he wants me to say something more.
I stare at the faces. Mostly they say I just want to get out of this smelly gear and shower.
“Thanks for the warm welcome? I’m happy to be here?” They think I’m totally lying. And they’re right. I can’t wait to be out of this locker room.
“Do we get free pizza now?” Mark Temple asks, dropping his pads on the floor. Temple towers over everyone else; he should play basketball instead of hockey.
Jake rolls his eyes, but he pats Temple on the back. “These are the questions that matter, buddy.”
Jimmy Flores says, “We already get free pizza from Tim.” He pulls at his shirt with Tim’s House of Pizza across the chest.
“Yeah, but Tim’s pizza sucks. Slice is the best in town.” Carter is practically salivating. “And we’re growing boys.” He points to Flores. “Especially Jimmy. He really needs the calories.”
Figures.
It’s always about the pizza. But it occurs to me that for the first time in years, it’s been an hour straight since I’ve thought about pizza. For some reason, that thought makes me happier than anything else.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Later that night, I’m back at the rink, dressed from head to toe in my hockey armor. It makes me feel invincible and I raise my arms like a superhero. It’s after ten o’clock, and Jake’s promised me a crash course before the next practice. I flap my arms again and this time I feel like an idiot. I can’t believe Jake talked me into this, but honestly, he didn’t have to do much talking. No resistance from me. After practice this afternoon, I’m ready to take the plunge. And to do that, I need to know how to play. For real.
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. I can do this. I’ve watched the tapes.
How hard can it be?
Jake slides onto the ice and skates twice around me. He stops and puts his hand on his hip in a spot-on imitation of the hipster judge from America’s Next Top Model. “You look good, girl.”
I scoff. “I look like a ten-year-old boy.”
He looks me up and down again, and nods. “Yes, yes you do. But for a ten-year-old boy, you look great. Now let’s get started. We’ve got practice again on Wednesday, and you need to be able to pull your weight.”
“I haven’t said I’m going to play yet.” I rock back and forth, trying to get a feel for my balance.
“You’re going to play,” he says, dropping a bunch of pucks on the ice from a five gallon bucket. He gestures to me. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t plan on playing.”
I purse my lips and push myself backward a few feet.
He’s right.
“First thing you have to do is keep your knees bent.” He demonstrates by squatting into an almost sitting position. “Lean forward. Keep your back straight.”
I mimic him and lean into position.
“You’re small, and you’re a great skater. If you can get this down, you’ll be a bullet; they won’t be able to stop you.” He cruises backward. “Now let’s try moving. He gestures to a spot on the wall and we both glide over to the side. “Race you to the other end!” and he pushes off the wall.
“Hey!” I totally would have had this if I’d had a chance at a clean start. I’m flailing in my pads, and it slows me down. He’s waiting for me at the wall with his legs crossed and a smug look on his face. He looks at the big clock on the wall. “Tsk-tsk, Pen. I thought you were fast.”
“Oh, I’m fast.” I touch the wall and turn on my blade. This time I’m not going to let him get a jump on me. I push away from the wall, but he anticipates the move and passes me almost effortlessly about mid-rink.
We continue at full speed for ten more rounds. By the end, Jake’s putting more effort into it, and on the ninth round I actually get to the wall first.
“Ha!” I yell, and pump my arms in the air, but my victory dance is cut short when Coach yells from the side of the rink. “I thought you were going to teach her to play hockey, not race up and down the rink!”
It startles me so much, I lose my balance and end up on my ass. “How long has he been here?”
“What do you mean? He’s been here the whole time. The owner isn’t going to let a couple of kids stay in the rink without an adult present.” He shrugs. “It was Coach’s idea.” He yells over, “Don’t worry! That’s next.” He reaches down and pulls me up. “Not bad, Blades. Now let’s see what you can do with a stick in your hand.”
I try not to snicker. Jules would throw back an awesome, snarky comment at the innuendo, but I refrain because anything I say is going to come out sounding stupid, not flirty. I skate over to where Coach is standing and grab the stick.
He’s leaning on the half door, elbows propped on the ledge. “You’re looking good out there, Spaulding. I’m just giving Gomes a hard time. How do you feel?”
I take a deep breath, wondering if I should be honest or not. I’m sore and my muscles are already tightening up. I’m going to have a bruise the size of a softball on my thigh where I fell. So, of course, I lie. “Great, Coach. I feel great.” I give him the best thumbs-up I can with a huge glove on my hand and skate back to Jake.
We spend the next hour doing drills. By the end, I can chase Jake down the rink and fight him for the puck. Of course he takes every chance he gets to sneak a shot between my legs and score. And he doesn’t do it quietly. He hoots and hollers every time he hits the net. He makes me practice forward and backward—working on my crossovers, my stick handling, and my stopping—until it feels like my legs are going to fall off.
And I love every minute of it.
It makes me wonder what else I’ve missed not being Jake Gomes’s friend for the last four years.
The clock on the wall reads 11:10. I pull a glove off to make sure my watch matches. “I’ve got to get out of here.” My parents think I’m at Lori’s, but it’s late and I’m guessing they’re already wondering why I’m not home on a school night. I turn around fast, and wrinkle my nose at the smell.
Gross.
I’m pretty sure the locker-room stink is me. I’ve got to figure out how to get my gear cleaned somehow—otherwise I’m not going to be able to live with myself.
“Your dad must be excited about you playing.” Coach says, as we step off the ice.
“What?” My mouth goes dry.
“Didn’t he tell you?” Coach looks almost offended. “I used to play with Adam when we were in high school. He was amazing. I see a lot of him in you. There’s a natural talent there.”
Crap. Coach knew Dad in high school. That’s why he was so easily convinced I could play. It makes sense now. “Um. Dad doesn’t talk too much about the glory days.”
It’s the truth.
“I guess I don’t blame him,” he says. “I haven’t talked to Adam in a long time. We all hoped he’d come to the last reunion.” He nods, remembering the good times. “Not that I haven’t seen him, I mean, you know, at Slice … but it’s hard to have a conversation with how busy that place is all the time.” Coach is deep in nostalgia. “It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen, the day he got hit. He went down like a ton of bricks. All the life went out of him.” After he says it, he notices the horrified expression on my face and realizes he’s said too much. “I mean … Oh shoot, I’m sorry Penelope.”
Grams told me the story. I know Dad got hit by a gorilla of a player during a championship game and it was
the last time he ever played. But I’d never heard it from someone who was right there when it happened.
“I’ve got to go change. My ride will be here soon.” I glance back at Jake, who’s got a weird expression on his face. “What are you looking at?”
“I didn’t know your dad played hockey,” he says.
“He’s practically got a shrine at school,” I say, stepping over the threshold onto the tile floor. “The case in front of Principal Jones’s office is full of trophies with my dad’s name on them.”
Grams gave every last one of them back to the school when dad stopped playing.
Jake heaves the loaner sticks over the wall of the penalty box and follows me off the ice. “I just never put the pieces together that it was the same guy.”
I throw myself down on the lowest bleacher and start to pry my skates off my feet.
“It’s easier to get them off when you strip down a little more.” Jake’s laughing at me—but not like he’s making fun. More like we’re old friends, even though it’s only been a couple of days. My heart flutters when I realize we are old friends.
“Let me help.” He leans over and pulls at my skate until it pops off and sends him flying backward off the edge of the bench.
He lands on his butt and groans. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
I shake my head and chuckle. “You can always say you got into it with a defenseman with a death wish. I’ll be your witness. The dude was huuuuugggeee.” I struggle to get up to help him. But then I get tangled in my own pads and end up falling over my own feet. By now I’m laughing so hard I can hardly breathe. I stumble again and practically land on top of him, which must look ridiculous. Coach calls over, “Stop messing around you two; we need to get out of here.”
“I’m sorry.” I can’t catch my breath. My arm is stuck under me and I’m not sure what part of Jake’s body it’s touching. I try not to move my fingers just in case they’re close to something they shouldn’t feel. My cheeks are burning as I try to get up gracefully, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think Jake wasn’t helping on purpose. I try pushing myself off of him, but he’s not trying at all. “Stop it, Jake. Let me get up.”
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