by Sara Biren
“Who did he assault?” Morgan sounds disappointed. Showbiz, who’s sitting next to her, takes her hand and brings it to his lips. Morgan and Showbiz have been dating for two and a half years. They’re disgustingly cute. I don’t even think he’s listening to the conversation. He’s simply in tune with her every mood.
“Who knows?” Cora says. She takes a sip from a giant travel mug of coffee, her constant companion. It’s good stuff from Peru, where her mom’s family is from, the only kind of coffee her family will drink.
She picks up a celery stick and points it at me. “Miracle also said that Jo ‘Mama’ Manson is going to ask your boy Hot Sauce to the Snow Ball at Coronation!”
“Not my boy. Your point?”
“You better get on that if you don’t want her to beat you to it!” Cora cries.
“Um, hello? Are we not going to the Snow Ball together? The Three Amigos?”
Cora sighs. “I will make the supreme sacrifice and step aside for you and Hot Sauce.”
“Where would you even get an idea like that? We hate each other. Not happening. Never in a million years.”
Miracle Baxter slides into the seat next to me, thank God.
Miracle plays on the girls’ hockey team, and is, honest to God, named after the Miracle on Ice. That Miracle on Ice, the one that happened in 1980 at the Lake Placid Olympics when the U.S. beat the Soviets. Every time I see her (several times a day), in my head, I hear the sportscaster Al Michaels saying his famous line from the broadcast, “Do you believe in miracles? YES!” Miracle’s older brother plays on my team and is named Brooks, as in Herb Brooks, the coach of said U.S. Olympic squad. And I thought my household was over-the-top with this hockey business.
“What did I miss?” Miracle asks.
“I was just telling Holland that Jo is planning to ask Hot Sauce to the Snow Ball.” Cora raises her eyebrows and pinches her lips together.
I shake my head and turn back to my lunch. When I look up again, Morgan is staring at me. She wipes her mouth delicately with a napkin before she says, “You know, when Wes was at your locker this morning, I thought that you two looked super cute together.” She smiles.
I put down my fork. “Number one,” I say slowly, tapping my left index finger with my right. “We could not have looked cute together, because we were not together. And I was probably scowling at him. Number two: I do not date my teammates.”
“Yet,” Cora mumbles.
“Number three: As I have previously mentioned, Hot Sauce and I can’t stand each other. In fact, we’ll probably kill each other by the end of the season.”
Showbiz laughs. “No, Holls. You might kill him, but he would never kill you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? He hates me! You hear the way he talks to me on the ice!”
He shakes his head. “He talks to everyone like that.”
“Oh my God, you two!” Cora cries. “Stop already!”
I turn to her. “You started this! You are one-hundred-percent to blame for the utter demise of this conversation.”
“Ohmygod,” Cora says. “OK, fine, here’s the deal. I sort of want to ask Matt Sullivan to the Snow Ball, so I thought I would, you know, plant the seed to get you to ask Hot Sauce.”
“Ohmygod is right!” I groan. “Why didn’t you just say so instead of stirring up all this drama? And Hot Sauce, of all people. Just ask Matt already. Morgan can go with Showbiz, and I’ll skip it. Easy.”
“You are not skipping the Snow Ball, Holland,” Morgan says sternly. “We’re going with our original plan, Cora.”
“Oh, fine,” Cora grumbles.
“Well,” Morgan says, back to her sweet voice, “I really like Jo. She’s so nice. I hope he says yes.”
“I guess you’ll have a front row seat for the show, Holland,” Miracle chimes in. “I heard she’s going to ask him in the green room before Coronation.”
I never expected to be voted to the Junior Court of Snow Week, the slightly less cool younger sibling of Homecoming for winter sports. But next week, I’ll find myself dressed in a long black evening gown like every other girl on the Court, on display for the entire school, as the Snow King and Queen, always seniors, are crowned. My money’s on Carter and Livvie MacMillan.
“Don’t remind me,” I mutter. “Can we change the subject? Miracle? What else do you have?”
She shrugs. “You heard about Dylan Rogers, right?” and the conversation turns back to everyone’s favorite criminal.
Chapter Seven
I slide into my seat in Rieland’s classroom just as the bell for last period rings. Nothing like the last minute in journalism and in life, she always says.
“Next week’s assignments,” Ms. Rieland says. “Livvie and Matt? Can you walk us through it?”
Livvie MacMillan gets up from her desk in the front row and turns to face us. She’s T.J.’s twin sister and the captain of the girls’ hockey team, holding steady for salutatorian, and co-editor of the Jack Pine, our online and print newspaper. Not going to lie, editor’s my goal for senior year, too (although team captain and salutatorian? I think we can all agree that’s not going to happen). The other editor—and Cora’s latest crush, apparently—Matt Sullivan, also played hockey, up until last year when his mom lost her job at the paper mill and he had to pick up more hours at the take-and-bake pizza place.
“Next week’s assignments,” Livvie repeats as though we hadn’t heard Rieland five seconds ago. “I’m heading up the social media team and Matt’s got the online edition. Souma’s scheduled to take photos of the pep band tonight at the arena for Miki’s feature.”
Matt stretches his long legs out in front of him but doesn’t bother to stand. He’s more chill than Livvie, and honestly? Even though I admire Livvie for her accomplishments and drive, I’ll go to Matt over Livvie with a question or problem every time.
“Holland,” he says as his gaze lands on me, “you thinking a piece about HockeyFest?”
“Yeah.” I glance up at Rieland, who’s tapping her pencil on her giant desk pad calendar, no doubt on the date of our print deadline.
“Yeah,” he echoes. “I think it should be online and print. Liv? Rieland?”
Livvie nods and turns to Ms. Rieland for approval.
“Yes, both,” she agrees, her pencil now paused mid-tap. “Halcyon Lake’s selection impacts a great number of students and staff. This is the biggest thing to happen in this town for years. I’m thinking full spread feature. Holland, are you up for that?”
My eyes flick from Rieland to Livvie, whose mouth has that twisty, worried look.
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s get something out on social media today,” Livvie says. “I’m sure the TV station has posted something that we could share. Jacob, can you run with that? Be sure to put in a teaser about the feature, maybe that we’ll get an insider’s view from our very own Holland Delviss?”
I tune out the rest of the conversation now that I’ve got my assignment. My first full feature of any kind, and we go right to full spread. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Not bad at all. And while my latest story ideas have been shot down—and, let’s face it, since the season started, my contributions to the paper haven’t exactly wowed the crowd—a story about hockey in Halcyon Lake? Cakewalk. Child’s play. Empty net goal.
Fake it till you make it.
Rieland stops me at the door after the last bell. “Holland? Got a minute?”
I’ll be late for practice two days in a row. Hot Sauce is going to love this. I step back to let the last of my classmates pass by. “Sure.”
Ms. Rieland, more than any other teacher, has encouraged my love of writing. She taught my freshman English class and a creative writing elective last year. She submitted a creative nonfiction piece I wrote about learning to skate on the lake behind our house to a student writing contest (which received an honorable mention) and invited me to join the Jack Pine staff. She played hockey in high school, too, and she doesn’t miss many games, girl
s’ or boys’.
She gets right to the point.
“What’s going through your head these days, Holland?” she asks as she walks toward her desk. “Your story ideas have fallen a little flat lately, and not just the ones we talked about yesterday. I also mean some of your recently published stories. ‘What I Did on My Winter Vacation’?”
“You didn’t like that one? Readers eat that stuff up!” I’d collected quotes (the day of the final deadline) by walking around the cafeteria during lunch and soliciting responses to the age-old question, “What did you do over Winter Break?” Highlights included a skiing holiday in Colorado, a tour of the Warner Bros. studio in LA, and a Minnesota Wild game in Florida while visiting grandparents (that was Showbiz). Not bad for waiting until the last minute.
She shakes her head. “Regurgitated info. How much of that did you write? I’ll tell you. The first sentence and the last sentence. The rest was served to you, and you served it right back.”
“Well, not every quote was perfect. I had to copyedit most of them.”
“Copyediting is not creating.”
Another Rieland-ism.
“What about last month?” she asks when I don’t respond. “You wrote about Snow Week, an article, as you call it, that copied a calendar of events from the school’s website. Again, you wrote an opening paragraph and a closing paragraph. No meat. No personality. No effort. Your editors may have approved these, but going forward, that is not going to fly, and I’ve spoken to them about it. Since the season started, the quality of your work has slipped. And I’ve got to admit that I’m a bit worried about the HockeyFest article.”
“Oh,” I choke out, because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to this. “OK.”
“Holland, you’re an excellent writer. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be in this class. You showed that with your first few assignments. Your article about the girls’ soccer team at the State Tournament was excellent. You’ve shown what you’re capable of. Let’s see more of that and get you into Hartley with a strong recommendation.”
I bite my bottom lip. My plan is to make it into the journalism program at Hartley University in Duluth, one of the top journalism schools in the Midwest. They’re Division III and have a women’s hockey team, so playing for them and scoring a full-ride scholarship wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I mean, if I decide to play for a women’s team.
I’ve been writing almost as long as I’ve been playing hockey. I used to fill notebooks with play-by-play accounts of games and terrible short stories about a hockey player and her three brothers who lived on a farm on a lake. In each installment, the girl, named Hope, was treated unfairly by her brothers in some way, but in the end, she always scored the game-winning goal and the brothers begged for forgiveness. In fifth grade, I produced a family newsletter, Stories from Story Lake, filled with compelling articles about the ice going out in spring, the birth of my goat Ozzy, reviews of old Pearl Jam and Foo Fighters albums. As soon as Mom and Dad relented, I set up my first music blog, under one condition: I had to keep it anonymous until I turned eighteen. Which was fine by me. Honestly, I’m not sure that I’ll ever go public. There’s something to be said for the freedom that comes with a low profile.
“Dig deep, Holland. You’re going to have a lot going on with HockeyFest, so you’ll need to find a way to make it all work. You’re one of this school’s most talented writers. Give us some heart. Like you do out on the ice.”
“Heart?” I repeat. This is not the first time I’ve heard Rieland say this, but she’s never had to say it to me. It’s embarrassing. She shouldn’t have to say this to me. She’s right. When I’m in this room, I’ve got to give it everything I’ve got, just like I do when I’m on the ice.
She taps her fingers against her chest. “Write from here. From the heart.”
I nod. “From my heart.” I sound like a damn parrot.
“Yeah.” She waves her hand toward the door. “Now get outta here so you’re not late for practice.”
Chapter Eight
The last time a hockey player didn’t win Snow King, so the story goes, a blizzard blew through Central Minnesota, dumping twenty-two inches of heavy powder and stranding the boys’ basketball team (and their captain, Brett Bailey, who’d committed the offense of being crowned King) for three days in the Little Falls High School cafeteria. Two days after returning home, the Snow King broke his leg in a snowmobiling accident and was out for the season. He lost his scholarship to the University of Minnesota, married the Snow Queen, took over his dad’s towing business, and lived out the rest of his days in Halcyon Lake, coaching his kids’ youth basketball teams.
Well, he’s still living out those days. I sit next to his oldest son in humanities.
“So.” Beck Bailey leans way over and rests his arm on my desk. Like his dad, he’s the very tall captain of the basketball team. Unlike his dad, however, he is not up for Snow King at tonight’s Snow Week Coronation. A bunch of his teammates nominated him as a joke, but he withdrew his name from consideration. The Senior Court, male and female, will be all hockey players this year.
“So, what?” I ask, flicking his arm. He doesn’t take the hint. He smells like pain reliever cream, menthol, and wintergreen. Rumor has it, he’s barely making eligibility with his GPA. How he got into this class, I’ll never know.
“So, I heard that you’re going to the Snow Ball with Cora. Couldn’t find a date?”
I roll my eyes. I don’t have the patience for this today. “Why? Are you asking? I’d love to go to the Snow Ball with you, Beck. Thank you so much for thinking of me!” I say in a sweet, even tone.
His eyes flicker in surprise and he turns bright red. “Um, well, I didn’t actually mean—”
I raise my eyebrows. “You don’t say,” I deadpan and shove his arm off my desk.
It’s third period. I’m hungry. I’m cranky. Almost a week has passed since Rieland told me to write from the heart and I’ve barely put down a word, from the heart or anywhere else. Last night’s game went into overtime and ended in a tie. We had dryland practice this morning and my glutes are screaming.
Tonight, I have to put on a fancy black dress and act excited about being voted Snow Week Junior Royalty by my classmates. Plus, it’s Decade Day, so I had to get up early to perfect my costume—and convince Carter and Jesse to dress up, too. We’re the three Hanson brothers from Slap Shot, complete with jerseys and heavy black-framed glasses. That Best-Dressed Award is in the bag, but I’m exhausted.
My stomach growls. I need to get through the next sixty-two minutes and then I can eat. When the bell finally rings, I sprint down the hall to the cafeteria without even dropping off my books at my locker. I juggle my stuff and my tray and make my way through the line but stop short when I get to our table.
Hot Sauce Millard is sitting at our table.
In my spot, on the end. I’m always on the end. This way, I only have to share space with one other person, who should be on my left so that I have plenty of elbow room on my right. There’s a good chance that Hot Sauce is going to get elbowed while I dig into today’s turkey gravy with whipped potatoes.
He’s deep in conversation with Showbiz and doesn’t even look up when Morgan sits down next to her boyfriend and Cora parks next to Morgan. I sit, too, one over from my spot. Hot Sauce doesn’t seem to notice any of us, least of all me.
“You do know that by sitting there, you’ve displaced someone else?” I say before I shovel a rather significant amount of turkey and mashed potatoes into my mouth. I can’t help the little sound of pure pleasure that escapes.
When I turn to look at him, he’s looking at me, his mouth open. “Did you just moan, Dutch?”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
He ignores that and goes back to my first question. “Who have I displaced, as you call it?”
I glance around the long, rectangular table. Our usual lunch crowd consists of most
ly current or former hockey players, Cora, and Morgan. To tell the truth, there’s a bit of a rotation with a few spots, besides the core group of us and Showbiz, T.J. Macks, Justin and Nik Swenson, and Miracle, who sometimes sits with Livvie and Jo and a couple of other girls from her team.
“Matt,” I say.
“Matt Sullivan?” he asks, and when I nod, continues, “No big loss.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t have much time for a quitter.”
“He’s not a quitter!”
Hot Sauce lifts his eyebrows. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of Cholula, which he tears open with his teeth. “Oh, really? Did he not quit the team? Or am I confusing him with a different Matt Sullivan?”
I scowl as I watch him douse the turkey with the hot sauce. “You don’t know why he quit.”
“Don’t I? I believe the saying goes something like, ‘If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.’” He sets the empty packet on the table.
My temper flares. How dare he say something like that? How dare he skate into town, onto our team, flaunt his championship medal, and make judgments about hardworking players like Matt? This is why I can’t stand Hot Sauce Millard.
“That has nothing to do with it.” I can’t even look at him anymore. I turn back to my tray and attack the creamed corn. You pompous, self-important piece of . . .
“Oh, yeah?” He doesn’t take the hint.
“Yeah.”
“Then, please, by all means, tell me why Matt quit.”
I swallow and shake my head. “It’s not my story to tell.” I need to shift the attention off Matt. I’m glad that Cora has been deep in conversation with Morgan and has missed the whole exchange. “What are you even doing at our table, anyway?”