by Sara Biren
“Huh. I guess I’ve taken a lot for granted.”
“Maybe. It’s all a matter of perspective. You’re lucky that there’s enough interest here to sustain both teams, and that, for the most part, people support your decision to play for the boys.”
The warning bell rings; the lunch period is almost over. I stand up.
“Are you OK, Holland?” she asks.
“I guess. What choice do I have?”
She stands up, too, and smiles. “You could always write about it, you know. That might bring some clarity.”
Her suggestion stirs something inside me. Maybe. Maybe I could write about it.
“Thanks, Rieland,” I say. I lift my hand in a half-assed wave and step out into the hall. I check my phone as I walk to my locker.
Wes: Everything OK?
Wes: Where are you? I can come find you.
Wes: Dutch, you OK?
Wes: Dutch.
Wes: OK I’m officially worried.
I tap out a quick message.
I’m OK. Talk later.
His response comes within seconds:
Whatever it takes. x
Was that x a typo or intentional? Do guys even do that, use x and o? My heart feels tight. Gah, all these feelings today.
I close my locker door and hustle to get to English before the final bell.
The x must have been a mistake.
Today varsity practices at Hole in the Moon to get the feel of the rink before HockeyFest. Wes is his usual charming self:
“You think you can slack off now that the interview is over? No! Now you have to work harder.”
“You got bricks in your skates today, Dutch? Skate, damn it.”
And my personal favorite: “This little black rubber disc? It’s a puck. Puck, meet Dutch. Dutch, meet our new best friend, Puck.”
I’d like to tell him what he can do with our new best friend Puck.
Even though I say nothing, he must see the flash of indignation and resentment in my eyes, because he locks his gaze and grins.
“I know you’re dying to tell me where I can shove that puck.” He leans in, both hands on the top of his stick. “You are my favorite little fireball.”
He turns and glides away.
“Bite me!” I call after him, and he skates back to me.
He’s so close, and I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m suddenly very, very afraid. He’s so close that I see him raise his eyebrow through his cage.
“Name the time and place,” he says, and smirks before skating off again.
Maybe the x wasn’t a mistake.
Oh, shit. I’m in trouble.
We’re sloppy. Maybe it’s the ice, playing outside, the pressure, whatever, but we cannot get our act together today. Coach calls practice early and sends us back to the arena to run it off.
Perfect. It’s just what I need to work out everything that’s twisted and knotted up in my head. I’m the first one up to the track. I slip my headphones on, find Wes’s Barn Burner Mix on my music app, and run through the confusion.
WESLEY MILLARD—BARN BURNER MIX
1. “Thunderstruck”—AC/DC
2. “The Pretender”—Foo Fighters
3. “Runnin’ with the Devil”—Van Halen
4. “Crazy Train”—Ozzy Osbourne
5. “Welcome to the Jungle”—Guns N’ Roses
6. “The Day I Tried to Live”—Soundgarden
7. “In Hiding”—Pearl Jam
8. “For Whom the Bell Tolls”—Metallica
9. “Kickstart My Heart”—Mötley Crüe
10. “Dragula”—Rob Zombie
11. “Chop Suey!”—System of a Down
12. “Toxicity”—System of a Down
13. “Epic”—Faith No More
14. “The Red”—Chevelle
15. “Master of Puppets”—Metallica
16. “In the End”—Linkin Park
17. “Immigrant Song”—Led Zeppelin
18. “Wish You Were Here”—Incubus
19. “You”—Candlebox
20. “Seek & Destroy”—Metallica
21. “Down with the Sickness”—Disturbed
22. “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”—Judas Priest
23. “Rainbow in the Dark”—Dio
24. “The Otherside”—Red Sun Rising
25. “Cemetery Gates”—Pantera
26. “Walk on Water”—Thirty Seconds to Mars
27. “I Will Not Bow”—Breaking Benjamin
28. “The Mountain”—Three Days Grace
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday night, we have the good fortune to play the tiny, terrible Wellspring-Settlers’ Corner consolidation team, a school with a program so small it can’t even support a junior varsity squad. That means that Coach calls up a handful of guys from JV to dress for our game: Lumberjack, Max Reynolds, Lakesha Smith’s little brother Evan, and Jesse.
The mood is light and upbeat as our side of the scoreboard ticks higher. Wellspring-Settlers’ Corner starts to get sloppy and they pull a bunch of penalties. We score on nearly every power play and even make a couple of shorthanded goals. I assist on our second and third goals and score the fifth. Once we’ve racked up the score six–nothing, Coach sits most of the seniors and works the JV guys into the rotation.
Big Mick, the announcer, uses our nicknames in his scoring summaries, and the crowd gets into it, chanting “Hot Sauce” and “Six-Four” and even “Showbiz,” who plays defense and scored from the point on a power play. This feels good, especially after Tuesday’s practice at the Hole. It’s just us, the ice, some crappy opponents, and the game, with none of the HockeyFest pressure or weirdness.
At 10–0, with three minutes left in the game and another Wellspring-Settlers’ Corner penalty that puts us at an advantage, Coach calls a time-out.
“Go easy on ’em, OK?” he says. “As much as it pains me to say this, try to keep the puck out of the net.”
Jesse, who happens to be sitting next to me on the bench, mumbles, “Aw, come on! I haven’t gotten my point yet.”
I roll my eyes.
But he goes out on the power play, scores on a spectacular breakaway, and gets his ass chewed by Coach when he comes back to the bench.
That’s also when Big Mick christens him with his new nickname.
“Heeeeeeeeere’s your Halcyon Lake Hawks scoring summary. Scoring unassisted, his first goal of the season, number 52, Jesse ‘Jet Skiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’ Delviss.”
The crowd goes nuts, and Coach shakes his head.
Later, after having to listen to “Jet Ski” on the ride home go on and on about tonight’s awesome game and how easily he scored that goal, I take a long, hot shower and settle in with a big mug of Mom’s Top Shelf Almond Joy hot chocolate and a night of catch-up reading for English.
But I can’t stop thinking about Wes. I’m so conflicted. I like him, but I can’t like him. I have a rule. I do not date teammates. I can’t break my own rule.
I set aside Margaret Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century and pick up my phone.
Me: Tonight was really fun.
I wait.
And wait.
Finally, bubbles.
Wes: Sorry studying for a big physics exam tomorrow
Carter’s studying for the same test, so at least I know he’s not lying.
Me: It’s OK. Good luck on your test. Night.
I’m so chicken. Why didn’t I say something like, I can’t get you out of my head. I miss you. Maybe we could make this work?
I don’t watch my phone to see if he’s responding. I set it on my nightstand and pick up my book again. The phone buzzes before I’ve read one (lengthy) paragraph.
Wes: Sorry I can’t talk tonight but do you want to listen to music together? Power Loon?
That is absolutely the cutest thing anyone has ever said to me. A grin spreads across my face as I reply.
Me: You realize that emoji’s a duck, right, not a loon?
Wes: Closest I could get.
Me: That is ducking adorable.
I walk over to the boombox on my desk and flip on the radio.
Tesla. “Love Song.”
The song is almost over.
He heard “Love Song” on the Power Loon and wanted me to hear it, too.
Bubbles. Bubbles.
No bubbles.
Bubbles.
Wes: You are ducking adorable.
The rush of heat and tingles that sweeps through me? That must be what they mean by “swoon.” I’m ducking swooning for Wes Millard.
I fall asleep listening to the Power Loon and thinking about my captain.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday.
Two weeks, five games till HockeyFest. This afternoon, we’re back at Midview, against LaPierre. I sit next to Wes in the stands while we watch JV take another beating. The peaceful, easy feeling from the other night when we stomped all over Wellspring-Settlers’ Corner has disappeared, and I’m on edge. I bounce my leg up and down, press my fingers against the sweat along my hairline, and hope that Wes can’t hear how loudly and quickly my heart’s beating.
Why am I nervous? The game? Sitting this close to Wes? Is it HockeyFest? Voting closed last night. Coach said we’d hear by Monday if we got the broadcast. You’d think in this digital age, they’d be able to calculate a few votes in a matter of minutes, not days.
“How was your physics test?” I ask Wes.
“Good, I think.”
“Good.”
Bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce.
“What’s wrong?” Wes says in a low voice. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t take his eyes off the action on the ice.
“Why do you ask?”
He puts a heavy hand on my knee to steady me and I nearly jump out of my skin from the voltage.
“What’s wrong, Dutch?” he asks again, pulling his hand away, still looking straight ahead.
He feels it, too.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Something’s off.”
“Besides Utecht’s goaltending?”
“Ha ha. Yeah.”
“Want a Fireball?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of wrapped candy. I hold out my hand so he’ll drop it into my palm and I won’t have to touch him again. Touching is too much. I unwrap the little devil and pop it into my mouth.
“Do what you gotta do to work through it before the puck drops.”
“Yeah, OK.”
“You want to walk?” he asks, pointing up. “I, uh, I can keep you company.”
I follow his gaze to the track above the rink, then look at him.
His eyes. His eyes get me every time.
I give a tiny shake of my head. “We can’t.”
“Why not, Dutch? No one’s paying any attention. No one cares.”
I can’t answer. The candy has reached its peak of hotness and my eyes water. I open my mouth and pant a little. He smiles as he watches me.
“But they do,” I say. His smile fades.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because, Wes. I don’t want to give anyone a reason to say I haven’t earned my place on this team.”
“But you’re already playing. You’ve already earned your place on the team, and you prove every game that it was the right decision. So what does it matter?”
“It matters. We probably shouldn’t even be sitting together right now. When they showed that clip in the interview, when we were in the stands before the game, Carter asked me if something was going on between us.”
“Did you tell him there is?”
“Wes.”
“Well, there is. I know you feel it, too, whether you like it or not.”
Oh, I like it, all right.
I don’t say anything for a minute. I don’t look at him. My best course of action is to ignore his comment. Finally, I say, “I forgot my headphones.” I crunch the candy, now a plain jawbreaker, the heat dissipated. “I can’t walk a track without music.”
His next words are so quiet, I need to strain to hear them. “So, it’s fine for you to flirt with me over text, but it’s not OK for me to want to spend time with you in real life?”
“Wes, come on.”
“No.” He stands up. “Forget it.”
My heart cracks a little as he walks away.
After JV’s ugly loss, Coach calls the varsity squad into the JV locker room. We cram into the small space, surrounded by waves of ripe sweat and disappointment.
“Sorry that your game didn’t go the way you planned, boys,” Coach says, “but about five minutes ago, I got a call from Mr. Handshaw. Jason Fink called him personally this afternoon to let him know that the votes have been tallied.”
My stomach drops. Oh, God. This is why I’ve been so off today. This is the reason behind that awful sense of foreboding.
I blew it.
We didn’t get the broadcast.
Acidic saliva fills my mouth. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Team, congratulations. Halcyon Lake not only received a record number of votes but won by a record margin. Our story blew the competition away, and the game next Saturday will be broadcast statewide. There’s also a fairly good chance that we’ll be picked up by a regional or national network.”
My stomach drops again, this time out of relief. Justin grabs me around the knees and lifts me high into the air while our teammates cheer and whoop.
“All hail Queen Holland!” he says. “Fuck, yeah, girl!”
“Shit, Holls, you did it,” Carter says. “You did it. You got us the broadcast!”
Wes stares at me with his genuine, vibrant smile, and I’m so relieved to see it after our last conversation. His eyes say everything I’m feeling: There are too many people in this room. I wish it could just be the two of us.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Even with the good news about HockeyFest, the odd feeling doesn’t completely go away, and I annoy the piss out of my teammates with my jitters.
“What is wrong with you?” Justin says about halfway through the first period. “Are you three-quarters high off nothing or what? You are marshing my mallow here with all this nervous energy.”
“What?”
“Calm the fuck down, Princess. You are amped up like Bennie and the Jets over there.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Whatever’s got you all a-jitter, you need to take it down a couple of notches. You are messing with my mojo. What’s your problem, anyway? You got us the broadcast. All your hard work is behind you.”
I shake my head, stand up, and move closer to the door for the shift change.
“Skate it off!” Justin yells as he follows me out.
The ice is fast tonight; the play on the ice is faster. These guys are good, and the back-and-forth wears me down quickly. Our shift is underproductive and Coach signals for a change. I catch my breath and drink some water once I get back to the bench, but I don’t sit. I can’t. The nervous ball of energy in the pit of my stomach grows. Whatever this is, some sort of uneasiness about the game or residual worry about the broadcast, I’m annoyed with my own self.
Breathe.
I move to the opposite end of the bench from Justin so he can’t yell at me for not sitting, for bouncing up and down while I wait for our next shift. With how fast this game is moving, and how long it’s been without a whistle, our turn comes way more quickly than any of us expect. I follow Luke and Justin out into the fray, and there’s finally a whistle when one of the LaPierre players knocks the puck into the backside of the net.
We line up for the face-off. The player across from me, number 9, gets a little too close for comfort, jabs at my skates with his stick. Nothing I can’t handle, but I’ve got my eye on this guy.
Luke wins the face-off and we easily maneuver into their zone. Number 9 is on my ass, though. He won’t leave me alone, jostling and hassling me even when I don’t have the puck. I throw him a tiny, nearly
unnoticeable elbow in the ribs.
“Bitch,” he hisses.
I pivot and skate off, but he follows and hooks his stick around my calf, hard enough that I lose my balance and go down. Idiot. The ref blows his whistle.
“Two-minute minor, hooking, number 9, LaPierre,” the announcer rattles off.
Wes comes off the ice and immediately starts yelling at me. “Did that asshole say something to you?”
“What?” Why is he yelling at me? “Why are you yelling?”
“Because I’m pissed! What did he say to you?”
“He called me a bitch, Wes,” I snap. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Let it go.”
“No, I will not let it go. Fuck!”
Coach yells for Carter and Wes to get back on the ice, even though Wes just came off a shift.
“Power play,” I tell him and point to the ice. “The best thing you can do right now is score on them.”
The five guys on the power play unit pass the puck around, working toward the perfect setup. Time ticks down on the clock. They can’t blow this player advantage.
“Shoot the puck,” I mutter under my breath, and a heartbeat later, Carter cranks out a slap shot that’s off by millimeters. The puck pings against the post and skids into the net.
The guys on the bench jump up in their excitement, bang their gloves against the ledge. LaPierre’s back to full strength, but our power play line stays out on the ice. Less than fifteen seconds after the face-off, Wes comes around the net from behind and stuffs the puck for a second goal.
Two–nothing and I’ve been avenged.
I wish it had been me doing the avenging.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sometime during the game, the snow started. I’d gotten a weather alert on my phone on the bus ride to the game but hadn’t read past “snow expected.” I mean, this is winter in central Minnesota. We pretty much always expect snow. But by the time we trudge through the foot of snow in the parking lot to the bus for the ride back to Halcyon Lake, the weather alert changes to “blizzard warning.”
I take the first open seat up front, right behind Coach. After Coach’s debrief, which was subdued even with a shutout victory and the news about the broadcast, I settle in with ear-buds and my postgame chill-out playlist and fall asleep. Turns out to be a decent little power nap, because it takes us nearly an hour on slick roads to get back to the arena.