by Sarah Ockler
Tuesday afternoon. Four p.m. Four below zero.
I bombed my eighth-period government quiz.
I’m behind on the reading group questions for The Scarlet Letter, and Hester Prynne is totally mad at me.
My tray-carrying shoulder is about to go on strike.
And twelve seconds into Will’s emergency extra practice, Chuck Felzner’s already starting with me.
“Aw, man,” he says when I skate forward. “She’s here again?”
I take in an icy breath and yank my gloves off. Sure, I could definitely do without the whining, but I’m not here to be anyone’s bestie. I just need to show up, get them to improve their game. Show them how much they need me, just like Will says. In exchange, I get the ice time. Quid pro whatever.
“Stuff it, Felzner,” I say. “We don’t have time for your antics today.”
“Ooooh!” Brad Nelson whistles from the front of the line. “Looks like Princess Pink got her balls back. Bring it, baby!”
Josh elbows him in the ribs, which I totally would have done myself if Brad would kindly stop looking like Tyson. Refreshingly, Felzner takes the hint, and in the momentary silence, I plow ahead.
“The other day, you guys asked me if I had a point,” I say. “Here it is: Somewhere under all that trash talk, you love this game. You’ve got a crazy losing streak, but there’s no reason you can’t end it. Josh and Will say you’re good. You could be better. You will be.” The boys are so quiet I can hear the hum of the cooling machines under the ice, ticking and whirring.
“I know skating,” I continue, “and I know I can help you. But you need to let me. And I need to see what you’ve got.”
I take a chug of water. When no one protests, Will smiles at me and I press on. “We’ll start with drills. Who wants to go first?”
Silence. Eye rolls. One sneeze, two spits, and a cup-adjust.
Just when I begin to sense that my ability to “bring it” has been severely overhyped, Will skates forward.
“Since none of you wolf pups wanna man up,” he says, “I’ll go.”
I send him up and down the rink twice, goal to goal with his stick and a puck. It’s like there’s an entire eighties Jock Jams soundtrack pumping through his head—all those songs the cheerleaders play at the basketball games to psych up the crowd, electrifying his stride. He’s hard, fast, and more than a little showy, and the prone-to-swooning part of me flashes back to that kiss in the closet all those years ago. I shudder. He’s good. Really good.
Thankfully, the objective, focused, professional-skater-type part of me tips her head sideways and dumps that dirty little thought right out on the ice, stabbing the life out of it with a toe pick. Aaaand, movingrightalong.
“Aggressive,” I tell him on his last return. “Looking good, especially on the straightaway. Watch the right foot near the net—it drags a little on the hard turns in the goal crease.”
“Goal crease?” Josh asks as Will skates to the back of the line. “Where did you—”
“YouTube. And Google.” I don’t admit how many hours I logged on the sites last night, totally blowing off my homegirl Hester Prynne and all that government class stuff about how a bill becomes a law, but that’s not important. “Oh, the NHL site, too.”
Josh laughs. “You probably know more about this sport than most of us put together.”
“Probably. But hey, the Internet is a democracy. Check it out.”
I call on Micah Baumler next. Issuing only a minor protest growl, he pulls a pair of goggles over his glasses and follows my instructions. Then DeVries. Nelson. Jordan. Torres. Even Felzner. One by one, they do as I ask. Not without a lot more eye-rolling than should be legal for a boys’ varsity team, but somehow we get through it, and I wave them back to the sidelines for a water break.
“Nice work, guys. Looks like we can skip the basics and start with—”
“You do figure skating, right?” Nelson again.
I think I liked him better when he was just grabbing himself and winking at me in silence. “That’s right.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick or anything—”
“Not trying? So dickness just comes naturally for you?”
For a second nothing happens. I cross my arms over my chest, bracing for his next comeback, but he doesn’t say a word about it. Suddenly he doubles over, a smile splitting his formerly too-cool-for-school face.
“Damn, I like you. For real.” He holds up his hand for a high five, and I concede, smacking his palm.
“You’re starting to grow on me, too.”
“Look,” he says, softer this time. “I’m not saying your kind of skating isn’t hard work, but twirls and jumps can’t help us against a bunch of Sharks or Bulldogs or Hawks. We need speed, strength, balance, raw stuff like that. So unless you know how to dodge a two-hundred-pound center comin’ at you like a freight train, you’re wasting your time.”
I consider his point. Ten percent valid. Ninety percent I-spent-too-much-time-watching-Rambo-as-a-kid macho bull—
“You guys aren’t giving this a chance,” Will says. “All those other teams got the same basic training, right? The same stuff Dodd used to give us when he was still around. But who else has a secret weapon like this? She can teach us tons of crazy stuff. They won’t even see it coming.”
I skate to the center again, buoyed by Will’s vote of confidence and the fact that no one has called me Princess Pink for at least five minutes. These practices will be a lot more productive for all of us if I can just get them to see what I’m made of—to see that they really can trust me on the ice.
“Will one of you guys try something with me?” I ask.
“I’ll try something with you.” Luke Russet, number twenty-two, defense. Dangerously good-looking in that my-motorcycle-will-definitely-piss-off-your-dad kind of way. He rubs the stubble along his jaw and wiggles his eyebrows at me. Will claps him on the shoulder before his hands complete whatever lewd gesture they were about to make, and I continue.
“Give me a helmet,” I say.
Will passes his helmet and skates up behind Luke, nudging him forward. “Go on, Russet,” he taunts. “Show her what’s up, dude.”
I tighten Will’s helmet under my chin and point to the net at the other end of the rink. “I’ll start down there. Luke, pretend you’re the two-hundred-pound center and I have the puck for the opposing team. What do you do?”
“I steal it from you or knock you down trying. Not that I’d mind knocking you up. I mean, down.” His eyebrows are still propositioning me, but I ignore them. Honestly, my father is clear across the country—way out of pissing-off-with-a-motorcycle range. Luke’s particular charms are lost on me.
“Do it,” I say. “Knock me down trying.”
Josh steps up. “Hudson, come on—”
“It’s okay.” I smile. “Trust me.”
Luke pipes up again. “Baby, you’re just gonna get laid out. I can’t do that to a girl.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t.”
He laughs and licks his lips. “Look at you, Princess Pink, tryin’ to be badass. Wanna bet?”
“Fine, bet me. If you knock me down, you get free dinner at Hurley’s every night for a week.”
“You’re on.”
“And if you don’t knock me down, you shut up. All of you.” I turn to face them. “Let’s get something straight, wolf pack. I have my own reasons for being here, and they have nothing to do with your sparkling personalities.”
“Point?” Felzner says.
“I’m not leaving.”
Felzner laughs. “If you say so.”
“I say so.” I tug my gloves on and skate down the line, beatdown-avoiding, territory-claiming eye contact all the way. “When I’m done kicking Russet’s ass, that’s it. No more whining about who’s tired and who’s hungry and who needs a diaper change. Got it?”
Nelson oohs again, Josh shakes his head, the rest of the boys laugh, and Luke’s eyes lock on mine, smirk erased as he
skates backward to the net. “You’re on, sweetheart. I like my burgers well-done, fries extra crisp. Vanilla shake, hold the whip. And I’ll take one of your mint chocolate chip cupcakes, too. Make a note.”
“Noted. Now … try to keep up, okay?”
I’m sure his response is laced with more ice than the expanse under my feet, but I don’t hear it. I glide to the net at the other end, stop, take a deep breath, and push forward on my toe pick. I zoom across the rink, cold air snapping my face, two hundred pounds of motorcycle-riding hockey god heading right for me.
Slash-slash, slash-slash …
A train leaves Los Angeles for New York at eight o’clock, traveling at a hundred miles per hour.
Slash-slash …
In New York, a train leaves on the same track at nine-oh-five, traveling at seventy-five miles per hour toward Los Angeles.
Slash-slash … slash …
At what time will they collide inside Baylor’s Rink, causing an explosion of silver blades and hot-pink dust where the girl formerly known as Hudson Avery used to be?
As Luke fast approaches my personal space, my brain checks out and my body takes over, shifting weight to my left leg and bending like a ribbon in the wind. He zooms past me and I pick up speed, pumping harder until I reach the other end of the rink, crossing over into a seamless turn and heading back toward him. His blades grind on the ice and I know he’s coming at me faster this time, the rest of the team whooping and shouting from the sidelines. Even Marcus, the ponytailed rink manager, has joined the pack, pumping his fist with the others.
On our second high-speed face-off, I lean into a twist, turning just as he stretches forward and hugs the wind between us. We whip around the rink for another go, and though he’s fast and determined and rock steady on the blades, he misses me again, and after the fourth miss, the boys still laughing and whistling on the rails, I signal to Luke that it’s over.
I skate fast and furious for the edge, skidding in on my blades, spraying the wolf pack with a shower of ice as I come to a graceful halt.
Marcus winks at me and disappears behind the stands.
No one speaks.
That’s right. And you boys haven’t even seen my triple/triple!
Luke slides up next to me, panting as he unfastens his helmet. He doesn’t say anything or meet my eyes—just pats me on the back once, skates to the rail, and punches Will in the shoulder like he means the hell out of it.
“After today, we’ve got one more practice before Friday’s game,” I say to my newly captive audience. “Can I assume we’re done with the theatrics?”
All of them nod, speechless. A warmth radiates from my stomach, the tension floating out of my limbs. It’s like every air molecule in the rink has registered the change, and now that I have their attention—and maybe even their respect—I want to be here. Not just for the ice time, but to help them. To really make a difference, just like Will and Josh always believed I could.
“Excellent,” I say. “Now strap on your helmets. You’ve got drills to do.”
Will glides over to me. “I guess this means you’re in.”
I look out over the boys, all muscle and sweat and swagger, momentarily brought together as they harass Luke about his inability to, in the parlance of our times, “grow a pair.”
I turn back to Will, his eyes fixed on mine, and mirror his radiant smile. “Princess Pink, at your service.”
Once hockey practice ends, it’s time for round two: Capriani Cup training. Certain the Wolves have all filed out into the parking lot, I soar back to the center of the rink alone, and with all the confidence of a girl in a hot-pink zip-up who just kicked about two metric tons of hockey-player ass, launch into a double-axel, double-toe-loop combo jump, landing flawlessly.
Ladies and gentlemen, Princess Pink has officially brung it.
Chapter Ten
Red-Hot Double Crush Cakes
Ginger vanilla cupcakes with chili-infused dark chocolate cream cheese frosting, dusted with cinnamon
“Who’s that?” Dani stomps into my kitchen on Friday night with her sleepover gear and a bucket of wings, the salty tang of Tobasco singeing my nostrils. “Oh my God, is that your father and Shelvis?”
“You got it. Daddy Dearest subscribed me to his new travel blog.”
She sits on my lap to get a closer look at the screen, scrolling down the opening post from Yellowstone National Park. There’s an obnoxious close-up of my father and his she-Elvis grinning in front of Old Faithful, his arm wrapped around her waist. Old Faithful? Right. Even though Dad went to Watonka High, he obviously missed Mr. Keller’s all-important lecture on irony.
Everyone says that the internet is so awesome because you can connect with people from all over the world, but I think it’s the opposite. The internet doesn’t make it easier to connect with anyone—it just makes it so you don’t really have to. And that’s exactly the kind of arrangement my father wants: Just checking in, no no I can’t stay, thanks anyway, don’t get up, click here for more, seeyalaterbye.
“For a female Elvis impersonator,” Dani says, “I expected someone hairier.”
“Tell me about it.” I sigh. Long, dark hair. Good skin. Smile as bright as the new-fallen snow around them. She is pretty.
“Sorry, Hud.” Dani squints at the screen, tapping the woman with her finger. “Send me the image file. I’ll broaden her shoulders and add some facial hair, maybe knock out a tooth or something. Sound good?”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“Hey, this’ll cheer you up even more. Extra-hot wings for our pregame pig-out, and check it out.” She hops up to grab her bag and dumps a pile of homemade DVDs on the kitchen table.
I shuffle through the stack. Wolves v. Bulldogs, Season XX. Wolves v. Quakers, Season XXI. Wolves v. Raptors, Season XXI. “Do I even want to know how you got these?”
“I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you mean.”
“That still leaves a lot of unsavory possibilities.”
She shrugs. “I have Mr. Dodd for gym. He loves me. So I told him I was doing a spirit club project about the history of Watonka’s athletics program and wanted to see the DVDs. He gave me the football ones, too, but I’m saving those for my private collection.”
I laugh. “You joined spirit club?”
“I would, if Watonka High had one. I’d be the president of that piece. Holla!”
I return her double high five and flip through the rest of the pile. “This is awesome. Thank you.”
“Thank me later,” she says. “Let’s eat so we can bounce.”
With a little bribery of the Andrew Jackson nature for Mrs. Ferris and the Mom-radar jammed under the guise of a French study session at Dani’s house, my best ami and I hit up the Wolves game. The task of finding good seats proves completely unchallenging. Aside from us, the hockey boys, the opposing Raptors, the coaches, two refs, and the AV club freshman who films the games, there aren’t many people here—a handful of families and girlfriends—twenty spectators at most. The highest section is closed off with yellow rope, and only one side of the concessions wall is open.
“Welcome to Ghostville,” Dani says.
I hush her as the buzzer sounds and the ref drops the puck between the opposing teams. Raptors take it first, the center forward rapidly slicing his way to the Wolves’ goal zone. Amir stops him, cradling the puck and knocking it into Raptor territory. Raptors take it back. Then Wolves. And on it goes for several uneventful minutes until the end of first period, when Josh finally takes a shot at the net—first attempt of the game. The Raptors dude saves it, ending round one.
From the penalty box, Coach Dodd consults his clipboard, calling out an occasional pointer or swapping players with as much enthusiasm as Trick remaking my screwed-up orders. He doesn’t seem to notice the obvious, plain as the white of the ice: Despite the scoreless second period, the guys are skating great. For the first time in a decade, they’re not losing. They’re holding it down in t
he goal zone, and other than a few recoverable mistakes, they’re keeping the puck away from the Raptors’ offense, weaving around the other team, unpredictable yet balanced, aggressive yet controlled.
“I think they listened to me,” I say. “They’re really keeping it together out there.”
“You surprised?” Dani asks. “I’m not trying to join the Wolf Pack Fan Club or anything, but you’re an amazing skater, Hud. They should watch your DVDs.”
“Yeah, but I never thought they’d—wait.” I lean forward to scope out the seats across the rink where a group of girls just piled in. “Is that Kara?”
“Yep. Looks like she’s with Amir Jordan’s girl,” Dani says. “Ellie something, I think? She’s in my English class.”
“I know who Ellie is, but what’s Kara doing here?” Kara jumps from her seat as the Wolves slice their way toward the goal again, beaming as if Will can see her enthusiasm from the ice. “She and Will are as over as Monday’s chicken à la king.”
“Eww, don’t remind me. My hair still smells like cream sauce.” Dani shrugs. “Anyway, she’s probably still friends with the other hockey wives. The players, too.”
“But—”
“For someone who’s supposedly not crushing on these boys, you’re getting a little worked up about this.”
I lean back in my seat and sigh. “I just think it looks desperate, that’s all. I feel sorry for her.”
“Mmm-hmm. Watch the game. You’re missing your hot little protégés take out their anger on the ice. Quite a sexy display, if you ask me.” She pulls out her Nikon and zooms in for some action shots. “And hello, number thirteen. Who is that?”
“Frankie Torres. He’s in our lunch period.”
“Guess I never paid much attention. Mental note: Pay much attention.”
I laugh and pat her on the back. “You drool over Frankie. I’m going down for hot chocolates.”
Concessions is at rink level, a long stretch of orange shutters that slide up like garage doors to reveal a counter and snack bar. Tonight only the far left side is open, the sweet, dreamy scent of powdered chocolate mix floating down the hall.