by Sara Biren
And that’s it.
Dad lifts the remote from the arm of the recliner and clicks the TV off. He clears his throat.
“Well,” Mom says as she stands and begins to collect glasses and popcorn bowls, “that was—”
Jesse interrupts. “Captain, Holland? Are you serious? I can only imagine the crap I’m going to get about this at school tomorrow,” he grumbles.
I stand up. “Look.” I take a deep breath. I have no idea what to say. Because even though I hadn’t considered being captain before I said it, why not? Who says I can’t? But I’m tired. Tired of this day, tired of defending myself, explaining myself, validating myself. “Hey, at least they edited out the part when I talked about not having a penis or when I called Carter a brick shithouse.”
Carter bursts out laughing, Grandpa and Dad both try to hide their smirks, and Mom shakes her head.
“Holland, do you have to be so crass?”
“Most days, yes,” I say.
Jesse stands up and gives me a light shove. “You are such a drama queen, Holland,” he says, but he can’t hide his smile. “Nice interview. But they should have interviewed me. I’m the best looking.”
I step over to my grandparents on the love seat and kiss each of them on the cheek. “Good night. Thanks for coming over to watch with us.”
“I’m proud of you, honey,” Grandma says.
“So proud,” Grandpa agrees. “You’ve done your team and your town proud.”
I snort. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll love that captain comment.”
“Well, we all say things we don’t mean when we’re under pressure,” Grandpa says, and I can tell that he’s not kidding.
“Grant!” Grandma cries, swatting him on the arm. “Why would you say she didn’t mean it?”
“Well, now, that would be a little out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you say? If they gave the captain position to you instead of a boy who’s worked hard to earn that role?”
My own grandfather!
“What about me?” I ask. “Haven’t I worked just as hard? Am I not as deserving?”
“Old-timer,” my dad says to Grandpa, “you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“He’s not ahead!” I say. “He’s wrong!”
Grandma stands up and gives me a side hug. “Sweetheart, we’re going to go so you kids can get your homework done. Don’t listen to your grandfather. He’s old and set in his ways.”
“I’m not that old,” Grandpa grumbles. He stands, too, and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve the position, honey. I’m only saying it would be rather unusual for that to happen.”
“Well,” I say, “that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”
“I’ll give you that.”
I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Gramps.”
My phone buzzes as I’m walking up the stairs, and then again, several times.
Hunter: u kick ass call me when u have a sec.
Morgan: OMGosh, Holland, that interview was amazing! So proud of you!
Cora: Glass ceiling smashed WTG!
Wes: You rocked that interview. You are a total badass.
I’m happy to hear positive feedback from my brother and the girls, yes, but that text from Wes sends a rush of warmth through me. I try to tell myself that it’s only because I’m proud that my captain took the time to compliment me, but I know it’s more than that. It takes several minutes for me to think of a suitable response.
Me: Thanks again for the pep talk beforehand.
His response comes only seconds later.
Wes: ANY time. I mean it.
I settle in to finish my homework and try to forget about the interview and how, in parts of it, I sounded like an arrogant asshole. A couple of hours later, my phone buzzes again, and I tell myself I deserve a break. It’s Wes again.
Wes: Quick, turn on the Power Loon.
Then he sends a link to a video. I’m too lazy to get up to turn on my radio, so instead I click the link: Poison, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I remember the night that Wes sang along.
Before I finish the first video, he sends a link to another.
“I Remember You” by Skid Row. And less than a minute later, another, “Sweet Child o’ Mine” by GNR.
Then:
Wes: you’re on my mind fwiw
This time, I respond right away. I wish that I didn’t have to study so we could have another ’80s glam metal video battle. I wish that I could text with Wes late into the night.
Me: FWIW, that’s worth a lot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So, Captain,” Justin says to me the next morning between second and third periods as we walk toward my locker. “That Fink at the Rink interview provided some fascinating insights into your personality. And ambitions.”
I groan. “Slacks. Stop.”
“And what did Coach say that day? About your interview? That you’d ‘represented your team beautifully’? ‘Acted with integrity and respect’?” He laughs.
“Shove it, Slacks.”
Morgan and Cora are already at the locker bank. I spin my combo, pop my locker open, and stuff my books inside.
I turn back to Justin. “I did all of those things. I never once disrespected anyone on our team.”
“Potato, potahto. What about the girls?”
“What about the girls? Are you saying I disrespected them?”
“I’m not saying it, but I’ve heard rumblings.”
“From?”
“Please stop fighting,” Morgan says.
“We’re not fighting, sweet cheeks,” Justin tells her, then turns back to me. “Jo Mama Manson, for one, and Lakesha Smith, for two.”
I roll my eyes. Lakesha is the other starting defense with Jo on the girls’ team.
“What did they say?”
“Lakesha said someone needs to knock you off your high horse, and Jo said she’s sick and tired of your holier-than-thou attitude.”
“Oh, for the love,” Cora says. “I’ll show her holier-than-thou.”
As much as I don’t want any of this to bother me, it does, but I would never let Justin—or anyone—know.
“Did they really say those things or are you creating drama, Slacks?” Morgan asks, and I love her for taking the words right out of my mouth.
“Can’t it be a little bit of both?” he replies with a devilish grin. “Fine. Yes, they actually said those things.”
“I can’t control how someone else feels,” I murmur. “But I can control how I feel and how I respond to situations.” I repeat the line from my interview that didn’t make the final edit. Too bad. I’d love for a few hundred people to hear it.
And I’d love to believe that I have that kind of control over my emotions, which at the moment are worn a bit thin.
“Oh my God, how very Zen of you, Holls.” He smirks. “All of Coach’s deep breathing and meditation and shit must be working for you.”
“Gotta go.” I pull a notebook out of my locker and slam the door shut. “See you all at lunch.”
This conversation—along with rude comments like, “Your hair looked surprisingly good, Holland. Did someone, like, style you?”—has put me in a bad mood.
When I sit down next to Beck in humanities, he says, “Saw you on TV, Delviss. You looked super hot.”
“Shut up, Bailey.”
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”
Not this again. “What’s that supposed to mean, I’ve got balls?”
“Oh, come on, you know. Playing hockey with the big boys, telling everyone you want to be captain next year. That takes guts. Balls. Gonads.”
“I see. So, for someone to do something gutsy, she needs balls? As in, testicles? Meaning that someone without testicles is inherently less courageous?”
“Aw, crap,” Beck mumbles. “It’s just an expression. Chill out already.”
“I will not chill out.
It’s not just an expression. Shit like that is demeaning, Beck, whether you mean it to be or not.”
His face flames. “Geez, Holland, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Well, now you know.” I turn to face forward as Mr. Neese clears his throat and introduces the old PBS video we’re about to watch on the building of French cathedrals in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
I concentrate on the patterns and lines and splendor on the screen and try to forget about the interview and Jo and Lakesha and anyone else who’s found new fodder for their arguments against me. I try to forget about my disappointment, my anger, my ideals.
My teammates—besides my beloved, snarky Justin—don’t seem to be bothered by the interview, and I grasp on to that knowledge with both hands. I get a couple high fives in the lunch line, Luke tells me he thinks the broadcast is in the bag, T.J. makes a crack about me being captain next year, and that’s about it.
I can’t get Jo’s comment out of my head, though. Even three deep breaths aren’t going to clear that from my cluttered mind. But a talk with Miracle might. I catch her before she sits down.
“Hey, got a minute?” I ask.
“Always.” She’s got her hair in pigtail braids—hers are short, not even down to her shoulders, but it’s something all the girls on the team do on game day, along with wearing their jerseys. “What’s up?”
“Jo and Lakesha are pretty pissed at me, huh?” No sense beating around the bush.
“Well, you gotta take that with a grain of salt,” Miracle says. “I mean, for one, you got interviewed and they didn’t. Two, I mean, look at you, you’re playing on the boys’ team and they’re not. No matter what you say, that does kinda make us look bad.”
“It’s not like either of them tried out.”
Miracle ignores that comment and continues. “Three, you and Wes disappeared from the Snow Ball and showed up at T.J.’s party together hours later.”
“We didn’t show up together. And what does that have to do with it?”
“Uh, yeah, you did. Jo asked Wes to the Snow Ball, remember, and he said no? He shows up to the dance without a date, but then he leaves with you. And then the party. So, yeah, Jo’s not feeling a whole lot of love toward you right now, Holls.”
I groan. “But—but there’s nothing going on between me and Wes!”
“Maybe not. But I wouldn’t worry too much about Lakesha and Jojo or anyone else. They’ll get over it.”
“Wait, what do you mean, anyone else? Are other people talking about me?”
Miracle smiles. “Yeah. I’m talking about you. I’m telling anyone who asks that I respect your decision to keep playing with the boys and you killed that interview. Do I wish you played for us? Hell, yes. We could use a sniper like you.”
“Sniper!” I laugh. “That’s a stretch.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Miracle says. “You got this, Holls.”
“OK,” I say and take a deep breath. “Thanks, Mir. I feel at least nineteen percent better.”
She laughs, and we head to our table.
Wes sits down with his tray seconds after I do. “Hi, Dutch.”
“Hi.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as he tears open a packet of Cholula with his teeth and shakes it over his cheeseburger—pepper jack, of course. I think about his text from last night, that I was on his mind. My cheeks heat.
“You want one?” He waves the empty packet.
I shake my head. I don’t feel hungry anymore. I feel a little nervous and awkward and maybe even shy. What is that about? Blech. I’m acting like an insipid, lovestruck ninny. All these emotions today. It’s exhausting.
Wes and Showbiz talk about HockeyFest and the interview. I tune them out.
Until he elbows me. “Right, Dutch?” he asks.
I look up from my untouched lunch. “What?”
“Awesome, right? How your interview turned out?”
“Oh, yeah, awesome.”
I don’t want to talk about the interview anymore, not even to Wes. I stand and make up some excuse about forgetting that I needed to talk to Rieland.
“Holland!” I hear Morgan cry out behind me, and then Cora, “She’s not eating?”
Ms. Rieland doesn’t hide her surprise to see me.
“Holland,” she says and sets her sandwich down on a paper towel on her desk. “I’m glad to see you. I wanted to touch base with you about how your feature is coming along.”
“Yeah,” I say, “not great. But that’s not why I’m here. I mean, it sort of is, but it isn’t.”
She tilts her head to one side. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I sink into a desk in the front row. “Did you happen to watch the Fink at the Rink interview last night?”
“I did. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that, like everyone else in the school?” OK, maybe a small exaggeration.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I guess.”
“OK, would you like to start, or should I?” She smiles. For being such a stickler about deadlines and going to print, blah blah blah, Rieland can be very understanding. And intuitive.
“Go ahead?”
“I was impressed by your on-screen presence, first of all. Were you nervous? It seemed like you felt right at home.”
“Ha! That’s part of the problem. Maybe I’m getting too comfortable in that arena for my own good.”
“Your answers were thoughtful and well delivered. You were respectful to the existence of the girls’ team without discrediting your own team, or anyone else.”
“Not everyone agrees with your opinion,” I say.
“Of course not,” she says, like I should know this already. That’s kind of a thing with journalism, I guess. Sometimes you present the facts from both sides. Sometimes you express your opinion, knowing that others won’t share that opinion.
“They don’t have to be so rude about it.”
“Do you feel bad about what people are saying?”
I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I’m overreacting. “I mean, I don’t feel good about it. And it’s only one or two people, but . . .”
“Holland, do you want to tell me what’s going on? Everything you say here is confidential, unless someone is hurting you, and then I’m mandated to report it. You know that, right?”
I nod.
Can I trust Rieland? Lately, nothing I say or do is good enough for her. She’s always pushing me to be better, do better.
Huh. When I think about it, she’s an awful lot like Wes.
She’s young, only a few years out of college. She played hockey in high school, so she may have some insight.
“I know,” I finally say. “OK. I’m pretty sure that it will come as no surprise to you that I don’t give two shits about what most people think.”
One perfectly groomed eyebrow tweaks up slightly, but other than that, she gives no reaction. I continue.
“But, I don’t know, this feels really personal. Like, lately, with HockeyFest coming up, and everything with the interview, the stuff people are saying really bothers me. It’s messing with me.”
“In what way?”
“I feel like every day I have to go out there and prove to myself and the team and everyone, really, that I can do this. That I still deserve to be there. Especially now. Because I put my foot in my mouth and said I thought I was good enough to be captain.” I bark out a bitter laugh. “I know I am. I’m good enough. It’s just harder to believe lately, with all the negative stuff on constant repeat in my head. I don’t know how to let it go.”
“So, sounds to me like you’ve got to figure out a way to let go of all that negativity. Think it through, Holland. What’s your plan?” Another catchphrase. Go to Rieland with a problem, and she might give you some advice or insight, but she’s always going to throw it back to you, guaranteed. Figure it out. Work through it. You’ll find your answer.
What’s my plan? I
don’t have one, except to do what I do every day. Keep moving forward. “Get through today? Get through practice, and our games this week, and then I’m going to get through HockeyFest. Probably spend a little extra time on the lake. It’s kind of my happy place.”
She nods. “One day at a time, one game at a time. I like that plan. My happy place has always been the weight room. I figure, if I can tackle that, I can tackle anything. You want to know my personal motto? ‘I can do hard things.’ I’ve proven that I can get through a challenge, so I can do it again. I’d say the same for you.”
It’s a simple motto, but it’s a good one, and she’s right. I’ve done a lot of hard things. Maybe I can do this, too.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask.
She smirks. “I grew up in Riverview, and you know how they love their hockey there.”
I nod. The high school at Riverview, a close suburb of Minneapolis, has more than its share of state championship trophies from across the decades. At least the boys’ team does.
“Ours was one of the first girls’ high school hockey teams in the state,” Rieland continues. “A lot of families welcomed the opportunity, but just as many resisted the change. You’d think it would be a no-brainer, right? Title nine, twenty-first century, in a suburb with one of the most progressive voting records in the Twin Cities. This is a city that had banned plastic bags before most people even knew they were a problem, but nobody better mess with Riverview’s hockey tradition.”
“So, wait, before you had a girls’ team, where did the girls play? I mean, were girls able to play on boys’ teams?”
She shakes her head. “It wasn’t prohibited. Official policy welcomed girls to try out, but that’s usually as far as they got. Once you aged out of the youth programs, options were limited. You could open enroll to a school with a girls’ program, or play recreational, or hang up your skates. Riverview is not a wealthy suburb. Most of the girls could barely afford to play as it was. Open enrollment or a traveling team weren’t really viable options for those girls. So, when I got close to aging out, my parents and a few others started a campaign for a girls’ team. It got pretty ugly.”