Cold Day in the Sun

by Sara Biren

  The only place I don’t see my puffy, ragged reflection is when I’m in a stall, but I can’t stay in here forever. When I finally come out, Livvie’s sitting on one of the benches.

  “Uh, hi?” I wash my hands and toss the paper towel into the bin near the door. Nothin’ but net.

  “Hi,” she says. “You OK?”

  “Are you waiting for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m worried about you. Wes told Carter that you started crying. Are your ribs bothering you? Your head?”

  “I didn’t hit my head!”

  “Geez, sorry.”

  “Did my mother send you in?”

  “No.”

  “Did Carter?”

  “No, Holland. I thought up the idea all by myself. Why is that so hard to believe?”

  I sigh and sit down next to her.

  “Sometimes I get the vibe that you’re not my biggest fan.”

  She nudges me with her shoulder. “You set the bar pretty high, Holland.”

  “I set the bar, Ms. Captain-slash-Salutatorian-slash-Editor?”

  “Co-editor,” she says.

  “Still.”

  I watch her reflection shrug in the mirror across from us. “Those things were next steps in the natural progression of things, I guess. I haven’t had to work very hard.”

  “Salutatorian? What?”

  “I’ve always had good grades. One day my counselor called me into his office and told me where I stood. That’s all.”

  I laugh. “That’s all, huh? So why not shoot for number one?”

  “A question my parents ask every day.” “You’d think they’d be grateful, what with T.J.’s stellar academic record.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “He’s lucky to make eligibility after that whole chemistry fiasco.”

  “I don’t want to know,” I say, and laugh.

  “Seriously, Holland, you OK?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “You’re under a lot of pressure right now. You must be so nervous for tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you? I mean, you’ve got the morning game, right?”

  “Who’s going to come to a game at eight a.m. to watch a girls’ high school hockey team with a record like ours, besides Carter because I told him he has to?”

  “What are you talking about? This is HockeyFest. The whole town is going to be there!” Note to self: Get up early to go to the game with Carter.

  “Tomorrow’s your day to shine, Holland. You’ve earned it. You’ve worked hard for your success.”

  I don’t feel very successful right now. Sure, maybe I’m creeping up on the team’s points leaders, and yeah, I’ve got ten-year-old girls dyeing stripes into their hair, but I cried. In front of Wes. And now Livvie.

  Like Livvie can read my mind, she says, “It’s OK to show your feelings, Holland. You can do Coach’s deep breathing exercise all day long, but sometimes, you just have to cry.”

  “Oh, really? When’s the last time you cried?”

  She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know, every time we go to print? Or the time Jo posted that ridiculous editorial about too much snow in the parking lot? Rieland reamed me out for letting that one through.”

  “That post got incredible engagement.”

  She laughs again. “Well, what do you know. You do see the glass half full.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  We sit in silence for a minute. This isn’t bad. I’ve always been intimidated by Liv, but tonight, she seems almost human.

  “So, you and Wes, huh?” she asks.

  I shake my head and another fat teardrop lands on my apron. “I fucked that up, too. You said so yourself: I should have come to you for advice.”

  “Can I give you some now?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Don’t give up on this. All your life, you’ve had to fight for what you want. Don’t stop now.”

  I let that one sink in. She’s got a point.

  “Hey, Liv?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any time. Just so you know, I’m going to be around a lot. I kinda like your brother.”

  “I kinda got that impression a couple of hours ago.”

  “One more thing, for what it’s worth.” She pauses. “Anybody who thinks you aren’t good enough to play on the boys’ team is a complete idiot. You deserve that spot, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

  With that, Livvie stands up and leaves me and my puffy reflection in the ladies’ room.

  I take a deep breath. I’m going to fight for what I want.

  I want Wes.

  When I return to the registration table, Wes and the cash-box are gone and Mom’s collecting the paperwork. Only a few guests remain. My teammates are clearing tables and folding up chairs.

  “Dad’s taking you home, Holland,” Mom says while she clips the papers together. “The boys and I will be along soon, but you need your rest.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. I glance around the room.

  Mom puts her hand on my arm. “Wes had to go, honey.”

  I shake my head.

  I’m too late.

  Wasting Light: A Blog About Music, Hockey, and Life

  February 9 11:33 p.m.

  By HardRock_Hockey

  Refuse to Lose. Whatever it Takes.

  Now spinning: Three Days Grace, Outsider

  Hello, Hard Rockers.

  Refuse to lose. Whatever it takes.

  That’s my team’s motto. We’re a hardworking, competitive, driven team from the middle of nowhere. We don’t come from a big school with lots of money. We’ve worked hard—as a team—to get to where we are. Tomorrow, our game will be televised in Minnesota and across much of the upper Midwest. For the first time in our town—I mean, probably ever—college and NHL scouts will sit in the stands, watching me and my teammates.

  I work my ass off for this team, for this town.

  So it pisses me off when someone tells me that, because I’m female, I’m creating a distraction for the boys.

  Or that I’m taking the rightful place of a male player. Or that I could get hurt.

  Or any of the other reasons that people have come up with.

  I did some stupid things because I didn’t want to give anyone another reason to say I shouldn’t be on the team.

  I hurt friends who’ve supported me and loved me and for that, I’m sorry.

  The things I worried about happening happened. I got hurt—physically and emotionally. But I survived the shit that came down. In the grand scheme of things, that shit doesn’t matter so much. You know what matters? The people you love and who love you back and make every day better and send you videos that make you laugh. I’ve missed those videos, 17. I miss you.

  I’m going to make this better. Somehow. I’m not giving up on you. I’m not giving up on us.

  m/

  19

  Comments

  12:02 a.m.

  You are such a sap. I’ve known it all along. He’s a good one. #riskittogetthebiscuit

  Hunter_Not_The_Hunted

  1:13 a.m.

  Go for it! I hope I’m lucky enough to get a girl like you someday. What channel will your game be on? Can I get it in SoCal?

  MetalManiac (Jim)

  1:59 a.m.

  This is exactly what I needed to hear. I play hockey on a boys’ team in British Columbia and I’ve been taking a lot of heat lately. Can I email you?

  Reese Camden

  Chapter -Forty

  I don’t sleep much, too keyed up, too antsy. So I take it all to the ice. I flip the barn lights on and head down the hill. It’s a few minutes after five a.m. I don’t set up the pylons or even drag the net out from the shore. I’ve got my stick and a battered puck and the ice. It’s all I need.

  The rink is fairly clear of snow, so I don’t bother to shovel or sweep. My muscles ache at first as I skate, but soon, a rush of warmth and
energy fuels me, propels me, loosens me. Unties the knots of fear and uncertainty that have hardened in me. The mess I made with Wes. The anger at Lumberjack and number 18.

  I’m bruised, but I’m not broken.

  They might knock me down, but they will not, cannot, knock me out.

  I’m still in this game. All in.

  Refuse to lose. Whatever it takes.

  My breath freezes into a wispy fog and my ribs ache with the cold and the movement. I can’t remember the last time I missed a practice, the last day I didn’t do something to improve my game. Even in summer, I’m shooting pucks nearly every day, in the basement or at the dryland facility in town.

  This feels right. The cold air on my cheeks, my blades solid beneath me, the ice a bit rough in spots. This feels like those early days. I remember the first time that Dad slipped a pair of Carter’s old skates onto my feet and held my hand as I tottered from the bench to the frozen lake, right before my fourth birthday. I’d wanted this so badly. I’d wanted to fly across the ice like my big brother Hunter, who had a couple of years on me and could already control the puck better than kids twice his age.

  Hunter’s the magic. Carter, the powerhouse. Jesse, the diva. I’ve always been the girl.

  Anger wells up inside me again, so I skate hard, back and forth across the rink. I peel the ice with my stops, sending big sprays of ice up, then turn around and do it again.

  I am more than the girl.

  I am the blade and the ice.

  I am the puck and the net.

  I am the forward motion and the stop.

  I am energy. I am intensity.

  I am determination and I am promise.

  I am nothing you can take.

  I am everything.

  Everything.

  All this time, I’ve skated for someone else. I’ve worked hard for someone else, to prove that I’m good enough, that I won’t let anyone down. Every time I’ve stepped out on the ice, I’ve busted my ass to prove that putting me on that team wasn’t a mistake. I’ve worked so hard to not disappoint my teammates, my coaches, my parents, even grumpy old-timers like Pete and George, but in the end, I’ve ended up disappointing myself.

  No more.

  Today, I’m playing for myself.

  Today, I trust myself.

  Today, I know I’m enough.

  When my legs are shaking with exertion and exhaustion, I stop, skate to the goal where I’ve left a water bottle, and drink, my eyes closed against the early-morning light.

  When I open them again, Wes is here. Standing on the snowy shoreline in jeans and his team jacket, a pair of skates over his shoulder, holding a battered stick.

  I blink. My blood sugar must be low. I’m seeing things. I blink again. He’s still there.

  “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, he sits down on the bench at the edge of the lake, kicks off his boots, and laces up his skates.

  “I don’t mind.”

  No, I don’t mind. I don’t know why Wes Millard is in my backyard at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, but I’m willing to see how this plays out.

  We don’t talk at first. We both sort of lazily skate around, pass the puck back and forth. After a while, he says, “You OK? Ribs?”

  “Ribs are good.”

  “Good. How’s your head?”

  “My head’s fine. My head wasn’t ever not fine.”

  Well, that’s debatable, I guess. I haven’t exactly made the best decisions lately.

  And please don’t ask about my heart.

  “Wes?” I stop skating.

  “Yeah?” He stops, too, facing me, inches from me. I can feel his breath on my cold cheeks. Cinnamon. He’s eating Fireballs at this hour?

  “Wes,” I start, then pause and suck in a breath. “Look, I owe you an apology.”

  “No.” He holds up his hand to stop me from continuing. “I’m the one who should apologize. And now you’re hurt. Shit.”

  “No, no, no. That’s not your fault. Don’t apologize for something that was out of your control. But hear me out, OK? Wes, I’m sorry. You’ve been so supportive, and I don’t know what I would do without your encouragement and belief in me. You make me want to do better. For myself, for the team. For you. I can’t thank you enough for that. I’ve been—I’ve been a little insecure lately, OK, maybe for, like, the last two years, and I thought I was doing the right thing by not letting anyone in. But the truth is, I want to let you in. And I want people to know that I want to let you in.”

  The corners of his mouth turn up and I can tell he’s fighting it. He moves a millimeter closer to me. “That’s a mouthful. Last night at the Hotdish Feed—I didn’t mean to make you cry. Are you really OK?”

  I take a deep breath, happy that the pain in my ribs has lessened to a dull ache. “I’m so much better now that I’m with you.”

  “Are you with me, Dutch?” he asks. Closer. Closer.

  “If that’s OK with you, then yeah, I’m with you.”

  “That is more than OK.”

  I grin. God, it feels like the first time I’ve smiled in days. “I’m glad we cleared that up. Now what?”

  “I’m not giving up on us, either,” he says. “So now we kiss and make up if that’s OK with you.”

  “More than OK.” I slip my arms around his waist. “Wait. You read my blog post? Is that why you’re here?”

  He leans down and smiles. Uh, he’s so close! Why aren’t we kissing right now?

  “You smell like a Fireball,” I whisper.

  He pulls me in close. “Wanna see if I taste like one, too?” he asks, and hell, yes, I do, and he kisses me. And it’s sweet (and spicy) and gentle and electrifying and everything.

  “I’ve really missed you and your glam metal text messages,” I murmur, and he kisses me harder.

  He pulls away abruptly and looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “You’re my favorite, Dutch,” he says, and I’ve never been happier to hear my name.

  “Never stop calling me that.”

  “You know I love you, right?”

  Whoawhoawhoawhoa.

  He loves me. My heart bursts.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I love you, Dutch. I have to admit, love was the last thing I expected to find in some run-down arena in Podunk, Minnesota.”

  “Hey, our arena isn’t run-down. ‘Podunk.’ How insulting. Halcyon Lake has two dollar stores. That’s not Podunk.”

  Wes laughs. “You know, I was so bitter about coming here. I mean, you can put hockey in any town, but that doesn’t make it a hockey town. But the first day we were here, I went to the arena, and even though it was August and ninety degrees and humid, I walked through those doors and it was like something out of a movie. I knew. I felt it. This was my new home. Archie was there, and he introduced me to T.J. and Nik, who were on the ice messing around. Having fun. And you know, I couldn’t remember the last time hockey had felt fun for me. Two days later, I met you, and that sealed the deal.”

  I pull away and look up at him, his beautiful brown eyes sparkling. “Sealed the deal?”

  “I knew I was in the right place. You know, T.J. had told me all about you.”

  “Oh, ha, I’m sure he was super flattering and sexist.”

  He shrugs. “It is T.J., after all. But he told me how good you were and how excited he was for you to try out for varsity.”

  “T.J. Macks? Our T.J. said all this?”

  “The very one.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. But he’d only told me what an amazing hockey player you were. He neglected to tell me that you’re smart and funny, or how you love glam metal and grunge, or that you’re gorgeous.”

  I look down, embarrassed, but he reaches his fingers under my chin and pulls me back up. “Don’t look away, Dutch. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s all true. I wasn’t expecting you. You walked into the ice cream shop and I gave you a hard time and you dished it right back. It didn’t take long after that to realize that I would
do whatever it took to win your heart.”

  I laugh. “Well, holy shit, you’ve got a funny way of trying to win a girl’s heart!”

  “I’m your captain, aren’t I? I’m supposed to challenge you. I’m supposed to piss you off to get you to work harder to prove me wrong.”

  “That’s your tactic, huh?”

  “Yeah. Does it work?”

  “God, yes.” I laugh. “You piss me off every single day.”

  “And look how much you’ve improved.”

  “That’s enough out of you,” I say, and I press my mouth against his.

  The problem with making out on the middle of a frozen lake is that you’re making out in the middle of a frozen lake. On skates! (We’re obviously very talented.) After a few minutes of increasingly intense and somewhat off-balance kissing, I pull away.

  “Wes,” I say as I catch my breath. “We have to stop.”

  “Oh, shit, is it your ribs?”

  “No, it’s not that. We—we have to stop.”

  “Oh, OK.” He sounds taken aback. “I’m sorry, it seemed like you were enjoying—”

  I interrupt. “Oh, trust me, I was. I am. But the girls play at eight, and we need to be there.”

  He leans in for one more kiss, the lightest touch. “As you wish.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Hole has been transformed.

  The old school parking lot has been cordoned off and is filled with food vendors, a merch tent, trucks and equipment from the TV station. Most people are parking at the Methodist Church or the hardware store downtown and taking shuttles to the Hole. Hockey fanatics from around the area have flooded the town. It feels like summer, when the place is overrun with tourists.

  The girls win their game five–zip and that sets the tone for the rest of the day. The entire varsity and JV boys’ teams showed up to cheer them on, thanks to a mildly threatening group text from Carter. My appetite’s finally back, so I set a goal for myself to try something from every food truck before we have to meet the rest of the team. Well, every food truck except for Third Street Rental’s. Holding a grudge is one of my many talents.

  Wes has other ideas, though. He tugs me over to say hi to Rollie and George and, coincidentally, Pete from the hardware store, who’s setting up another space heater between their food truck and the taco truck.