by Sara Biren
“More than anything, I wish we lived in a world where this kind of conversation wasn’t necessary.”
“Well, it’s a man’s world, isn’t it?”
Rieland nods. “Can’t disagree there. Holland, about the photo . . . Are you involved with Wes?”
My cheeks heat; I feel pools of saliva gathering in the back corners of my mouth. I take a few deep breaths. I am not going to puke.
“Not anymore,” I finally whisper. “Does it matter?” I know exactly where she’s going with this, but I don’t want to hear it.
“It might, especially after Jack posted that photo. Coach Giles needs to take this to Mr. Handshaw so that the school can file a formal complaint against the player who harassed you tonight. I’ll help however I can. This isn’t OK. Not the hit, not the comments, none of it. I don’t buy for one minute that boys will be boys. We can’t let this kind of behavior continue. Don’t let that guy get away with this.”
I nod and try to swallow down the panicky feeling. “You don’t believe what he said, do you? That I’m—uh, sleeping my way through the locker room?”
“No, I don’t believe that. But you should be prepared to be asked that question. Especially after the photo.”
“This is such bullshit!” I mumble.
“Yeah, it’s bullshit,” she agrees. “But it happened.”
I drop my head into my hands. Damn damn damn for breaking my own rule.
But then again, fuck that. I didn’t have sex with Wes or anyone else for that matter, and even if I had, that guy had no right to say those things to me. What I do with my body and who I choose to do it with, teammate or not, is no one’s business but my own.
“Do you feel safe?” Rieland asks after a moment.
I lift my head and look at her. Her eyes are gentle. “What do you mean?”
“Do you feel like someone might hurt you again, on or off the ice?”
I don’t know what I feel besides numb, discouraged, disappointed in the world. I feel the weight of self-doubt again.
“That’s a chance I take every time I step out onto the ice. Hockey’s a contact sport. You know that. Half the time the only way these guys even know they’re playing against a girl is my ponytail. But if you’re asking me if I think that the guy who mouthed off to me is going to sexually assault me, no. Or any opponent. Or any teammate, for that matter.”
“Promise me, though, that if you feel like you’re in a situation that’s gotten too intense, you’ll get yourself out of it. Ask for help if you need it.”
I nod.
“And Holland?”
“Yeah?”
“You will get through this.”
I nod again. The only way out is through.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dad finds me with a minute left on the clock.
“Come on,” he says. “I let Coach Giles know you’re coming home with us.”
After a long, mostly silent drive back to Halcyon Lake, Mom does what she does best. She brings me a plate of cookies and a cup of her organic healing tea, a blend of lemon and ginger that she swears can cure any ailment. She makes up my bed with lots of extra pillows and the faux fur “comfort” throw with lavender sewn into the binding that she gave me for Christmas.
“What else can I bring you?” she asks. “Another ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “Mom, I’m not in that much pain.”
She hands me my phone. “Text me if you need anything else.”
I nod and set the phone on the bedside table. I’ve reassured Morgan and Cora that I’m fine, called Hunter. There’s no one else I need to talk to tonight.
My ribs and my head ache, but number 18’s words, the snarl, the nastiness of them, bring tears to my eyes, and once the tears start, I’m too tired to fight them. I cry for long minutes, and after a while, Mom comes into my room, sits down next to me on the bed, pulls me close. I cry into her lap. I can’t remember the last time I let myself cry like this.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says in that soothing way of hers, stroking my hair. “Is it the pain?”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry this has gotten so hard for you,” she says. “You are such a strong girl, Holland, and I’m so proud of you. You’ve always been brave and stood up to anyone who said you weren’t good enough to play with the boys. Suddenly, you’re getting all this attention because you’re better than a lot of those boys, and it’s got to hurt.”
“That’s just it!” I wail. “Why do I have to be good enough to play with the boys? Why can’t I just be good? I’m a great hockey player. It shouldn’t matter if my teammates are male or female or whatever. I play hockey, and I’m good at it. That should be enough.”
She sighs, and it’s a deep, deeply felt exhale. “You’re right, that should be enough. But it’s not, and you know it, and it’s going to be a long time before it is enough. And until then, you’ll have to put up with people saying that the school district and Coach Giles made a mistake letting you play on the boys’ team. We heard it tonight in the stands after that hit. That it’s too dangerous for a girl to play with boys.”
“But anybody could have taken that exact hit and ended up with the exact injury! Male or female!” I cry.
“True. Not everyone sees it that way, though. You know, Dad and I are so proud of you and the boys. You’re excellent hockey players, but you know what else? You’re even better human beings.”
I’m not feeling like such an excellent human being. I sniffle.
“Holland? Is there something else going on?”
I don’t feel like telling her what happened with Wes, not with him helping out at her Hotdish Feed tomorrow night. And besides, I can’t let myself cry anymore.
“I . . . I’m disappointed with a lot of things. People. That’s all.”
“Yes, people can be disappointing. Relationships are hard.” She stands up and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “I noticed that you didn’t sit by Wes during the JV game tonight.”
I shake my head. “Mom . . . can we talk about something else?”
“OK. Debbie cut my hair yesterday,” she says and smiles.
Wes’s mom. “And?”
“She said that she enjoyed having the three of you over during the storm. She’s so happy you and Wes have gotten together. And she wanted me to tell you that Tallie misses you and hopes you’ll visit again soon.”
My heart soars and crash-lands in the field of my shredded dignity.
“Well, Tallie is going to be very disappointed.” I sniffle again.
Mom reaches out and strokes my cheek. “He can’t take his eyes off you when you’re on the ice.” She stands and walks to the door. “Call me if you need anything.”
My ribs are sore; my eyes are puffy and achy from crying. I can’t find a comfortable position to sleep.
Worse than any of that is the heaviness in my heart.
I turn on the Power Loon and sigh with relief that they’re not playing “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” or “Love Song.” But oh, God. It’s even worse. Def Leppard, “Too Late for Love.”
My phone buzzes and somehow, I know it’s Wes. Is he listening, too?
Wes: I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to but please let me know you’re OK
I don’t respond for a long time. Not through “The Boys of Summer” or “Roadhouse Blues” or “Rock You Like a Hurricane.”
Finally, during Van Halen’s “I’ll Wait,” I tap out: I’m OK and switch my phone off. “I miss you,” I whisper.
I lie in bed, listening to the Power Loon and trying to sort out everything that’s happened in the last few days.
Nothing makes sense.
I dig around in the drawer of my bedside table until I find a pen and the cream-colored, leather-bound journal Hunter gave me for Christmas. The cover is stamped with gold foil letters in fancy script: full of ideas, the word “ideas” crossed out and replaced with bold black: shit. I open it and trace the inscript
ion on the inside cover. To Holland—write your heart out.
And I start to write. I write about my first varsity game, my love for the sport, my respect for it. I write about the haters. I write about number 18 and the hit, my sore ribs, my wounded pride. I write about Big Donnie, how even though Hunter took down his letter, in my low moments, the words swirl around me like ghosts: I, for one, will feel no sympathy for Ms. Delviss should something unfortunate occur because of her presence on the team.
I write about my teammates, my dedication to the team, our faith in one another.
I write about my captain: Somewhere in all of this, I fell in love with Wes Millard.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I am not a bystander. I don’t like to sit by and watch while my teammates run drills and scrimmages. I’m itching to get out on the ice, but instead, I’m stuck in the stands, my eyes constantly drifting back to Wes. Damn damn damn.
“Hey, Holly Hotpants,” Justin calls up to me. “You a puck bunny now?”
I hate being called Holly Hotpants, hockey slang for a cute girl in the stands. Someday when I have a free second, I’m going to embroider “These are not your hotpants” on the back pocket of my favorite jeans.
I give Justin the finger.
After a while, the irritation gets to be too much, so I pull out my FULL OF SHIT notebook and continue writing what I started last night. I may not be able to “evoke emotion” for the Jack Pine, but I sure as shit can for Wasting Light.
I don’t look up again until I hear Carter calling for me.
“Hey, Holls, come down on the ice. Coach wants to talk about tomorrow.”
I grab my backpack and make my way down to the ice, shuffling in my winter boots to the bench. Justin skates over, I put my hands on either side of his waist, and he tows me the rest of the way.
“Even though we won, I don’t have to tell you that last night’s game was a tough one,” Coach says. “Especially for Holland. Hopefully, with a day off today, she’ll be rested and ready to go tomorrow afternoon. Sounds like quite a few of you are volunteering at the sponsor dinner tonight, so I’ll see you there. Remember, everyone needs to be at the B tent in the Hole parking lot at one o’clock tomorrow, no later. Don’t forget your gear. That’s all I got.”
The guys skate off, and the managers gather up the water bottles. Wes is the first to leave the ice, pulling off his gloves as he skates toward the door.
“Don’t look so glum, Princess,” Justin says as he taxis me across the ice. “Hot and Spicy will come around.”
He deposits me at the door and walks off toward the locker room.
I move out to the lobby to wait for Carter. I pace. Back and forth. Breathe in. Breathe out. I stop in front of the picture of the 1993 State Championship team, my dad front and center, a huge grin on his face, his hair floppy and long. He loves this game, this hockey life. He must have been thrilled when all his kids fell in love with the game, too, and turned out to be pretty damn good.
I love it. I love playing, and it kills me that there are people who wanted to take that away from me. When it’s time for me to leave the game, I’ll leave on my own terms, in my own time.
“Holls.”
I turn to see Carter, his gear bag slung over his shoulder. He’s the first one out of the locker room. “You ready?”
He moves toward the door, but I hesitate. He turns around when he realizes I’m not following him.
“What?” he asks.
I look at the door that leads into the arena. I want to see Wes so much it’s physical.
“What’s wrong? Mom’s waiting for us at City Hall.”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m coming.”
Carter throws his gear into the back of the Suburban and fires up the old workhorse. They’re a lot alike, this boy and his truck. That thought leads to thoughts of another boy and another truck, and I think about Wes, and the silence on our ride home from the Chinese Lantern, the feel of his fingers around my wrist, the echo of his words.
I don’t think we should see each other anymore.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mom prepped for the Hotdish Feed all week and spent most of today in the commercial kitchen at City Hall. She’s got a lot of mouths to feed tonight: fifty-three sponsors and guests, eight committee members, and fourteen volunteer servers, all hockey players, including me, Carter, Jesse, Wes, Showbiz, even Livvie. We’re dressed in black pants, white button-down shirts, and black vests Mom rented from Uniforms & More. And aprons. Black aprons tied around our waists.
We’re adorable.
Ducking adorable.
Maybe a little too adorable, I think, when I find Carter and Livvie making out in the hallway behind the kitchen. I clear my throat to get their attention and they jump apart. Livvie smooths her hair and Carter adjusts his vest.
Liv smiles at me (a first), kisses Carter on the cheek, and says, “Don’t tell your mom you busted us, Holland. She’ll put us to work doing dishes. I need to go redo my lipstick.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m the last person who’ll rat you out.”
She slips off toward the restrooms.
“Hey.” I grab Carter’s sleeve as he starts to walk back into the kitchen. “Why didn’t you and Liv tell anyone you were seeing each other? Were you afraid of backlash?”
“What backlash? I wanted to keep her to myself for a little while,” Carter says. “Simple as that.”
I should be so lucky, for a little simplicity.
Mom gathers us in the kitchen for assignments before the guests arrive.
“For the most part, you’ll either help serve at the buffet line or the dessert table, refill waters, clear plates. I’ll need one or two back in the kitchen with me to switch out pans on the buffet. They’ll be heavy. Holland, you’re at the check-in table, and I’ll need one more volunteer to help her out up there. Once everyone’s checked in, you’ll be selling tickets to the upcoming Rotary pancake breakfast.”
“What? You’re not going to make me sit at a table all night, are you?”
“Doctor’s orders. You should be at home resting, not bussing dishes.”
“Mom.”
She ignores me. “Pair up, kids, and find a workstation. Our guests will be arriving soon.”
I stomp up to the registration table and slump down in one of the chairs. Doing nothing is exhausting. I’m used to one or two practices a day, and most days, my own drills out on the ice or in the basement. Today I’ve sat. The most action I saw was when Justin towed me across the ice.
Only one thing . . . er . . . person could make this situation worse, and he sits down next to me as the first guests come in.
“Hey, Coach. Mrs. Giles,” Wes says.
“Hey, Wes,” Mrs. Giles says. “Holland, how are you feeling today?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Will you be ready to play tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Won’t let a stick to the ribs stop me.”
“Can’t keep our Holland down,” Coach agrees.
Wes takes their tickets and hands them to me as they walk away. “Carolyn says to check off names on this spreadsheet as guests arrive. Here, see?”
“I’m not blind,” I snap. “Why are you here? Doesn’t Mom need some brawny guys in the kitchen to help with the roasters?”
“I volunteered to sit with your crabby ass. Nobody else would do it.”
“How gallant of you.”
Guests start to stream in. Wes takes tickets and I check off names. The enticing aroma of seven kinds of hotdish wafts around me and my stomach growls.
“Didn’t you eat?” Wes asks between tickets.
“I ate.” I haven’t, really, since those cream cheese wontons on Monday night at the Lantern before Lumberjack showed up. Despite my body’s obvious need for fuel, even the thought of my mom’s chicken and wild rice hotdish turns my stomach.
Once all the sponsors and committee members have arrived and I’ve checked off the last
name on the spreadsheet, there’s nothing to do but wait and see if anyone wants to buy a ticket to the pancake breakfast. It’s going to be a long night.
“Why don’t you go see if they need any help in the kitchen?”
I say after a few endless, empty minutes.
“No.”
“It’s pointless for us both to sit here and do nothing.”
“I said no.”
“I’d do it if I could,” I say. “Help in the kitchen, I mean. Or at the very least help clear tables. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand not moving.”
“Stop complaining.”
As crappy as this conversation makes me feel, I’ll take fighting with Wes over nothing with Wes.
“Why are you being so rude?”
He turns to stare me down. “Because being around you is hard, Dutch, and so maybe I’ve built up a way to defend myself.”
“Like a porcupine with thirty thousand quills?” I ask. “Or maybe a skunk?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Like looking in a mirror.” My voice cracks.
I pull out my phone and pretend to be very interested in my Instagram feed.
“Dutch,” he says quietly, “I saw your blog post, the, uh, shit, the heartbreak one? Everything that’s happened . . . it’s not just your fault, Dutch.”
I refuse to look at him.
He goes on. “I didn’t want to keep things between us a secret, but I know that none of this has been easy for you. And I’m sorry that things have been so hard. And, uh, I’m sorry that I made things worse.”
My heart cracks again, and horrible, hot, stinging drops of water pour out of my eyes. I swipe at them and sniffle.
“Hey,” he says as he reaches across the space between us and touches my arm with one finger. One finger and I’m through the roof with sensation. “Are you crying?”
I stand so quickly, I knock the chair over. “No, absolutely not.”
The long, spacious ladies’ room at City Hall features one entire wall of full-length mirrors and a couple of padded benches. Pretty high-class for a small-town municipal building in the Lakes Country, but they host a lot of wedding receptions for the folks who can’t afford one of the big resorts.