Just One of the Boys

by Lexie Syrah

  This cannot be happening. No one deserves it? Is he still mad I knocked a couple guys out last season? I had more points than anyone in the league, even with my suspension!

  Everyone’s looking at me. They’re all thinking the same thing. They’re stuck with the reject Tremblay. The cast-off. The one who wasn’t quite good enough.

  I don’t look at anyone as I skate off the ice. I’ve faced rejection before. Even failure. But it’s never felt like this. Before, I always wanted to fight back. I wanted to prove everyone wrong.

  That feeling’s not here now.

  In fact, I don’t feel anything at all.

  All I can hear is that voice inside of me repeating over and over: You aren’t good enough. And you never will be.

  …

  Alice

  Everyone’s looking at Hayden as he skates off the ice. I’d feel bad for the guy if he hadn’t totally ignored me when I tried to offer him some friendly advice. It had just been so easy to take the puck from him. You let your guard down when you get cocky.

  The coach runs a hand over his face. “All right, kids, hit the showers.”

  The showers!

  An icy chill runs through me as we shuffle toward the locker room. Breathe. I planned this out. I just have to make it past the showers, grab my bag, and escape.

  As the guys head into the showers, I avert my eyes from their pasty bods and snatch up my bag. I dart out of the locker room and turn a corner. I’m not really familiar with these hallways yet, but it’s my best bet for escape.

  Except I smack right into Coach Z.

  “Bell?” he says, his moustache curling into a frown. “What are you doing here? Get to the showers. You smell worse than Sacachelli’s locker.”

  “Uh, yeah, well, I was just—”

  “He was looking for me.” Like an angel descending from the heavens, Madison appears behind the coach. She stands in front of him, waving a piece of paper around. “Bell suffers from severe contact dermatitis. He’s allergic to soap.”

  Coach’s eyebrows meet in the middle.

  “It means,” Madison continues, “unless we want the only player who can steal the puck from Tremblay to break out into hives, he’ll be showering in the trainer’s office.”

  Coach shakes his head as if we’ve just wasted two minutes of his life, then turns and mutters, “Hey Bell, I hope there’s no hard feelings with your sister. One of the women’s leagues would be lucky to have her. But you know how it is.”

  A smug smile spreads across my face. “Oh, don’t you worry, Coach. She’s managing just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He looks away. “Good job today. You really played like a man out there.”

  “Coach,” I say, “you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Chapter Four

  Hayden

  I pull up in front of the rink. When I can’t sleep, when my brain feels too foggy to think, or when everything seems to be crushing down on me, I come here.

  The janitors have gotten used to me being here. As long as I stay out of their way, I can use the rink as much as I want.

  I like coming here late at night. It’s so quiet, all I can hear is my own breath and the slice of my blades against the ice. I can really concentrate when I’m alone, when no one’s watching or judging.

  But my heart sinks when I walk into the arena. I’m not alone. The rink was only supposed to be booked until 11:00 p.m. tonight, and it’s almost midnight.

  There’s a girl out there: a figure skater, twirling around and taking up the whole rink. She wears tight black pants, and a loose T-shirt. Her face is red and glistening: she must have been out here a while. Long brown hair flows down her back.

  I just can’t catch a break today. I lace up my skates, grab my stick and puck, and head onto the ice. Maybe I’ll scare her away.

  I take a couple shots at the net but can’t get into the rhythm. It’s not like it should be. The scrape of her skates is deafening. I turn to glare at her. She flies on the ice, jumping, skating backward, twirling, and whipping right by me. How am I supposed to concentrate with this nonsense going on?

  “Hey,” I say. “This side of the rink is mine, okay? So just keep your twirling over there.”

  She skids to a hard stop, shooting up ice. And then she skates toward me.

  I find myself inching away as she approaches. She’s actually beautiful—but not in a typical way. She’s more striking, having the kind of face you remember. Angled cheekbones, straight firm brows, and big autumn gray eyes that seem to capture me in a single glance—or glare, which is how she’s looking at me now.

  Okay, maybe I deserve that.

  She’s flushed and breathing heavy, gathering her long hair around her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  And her face turns into a familiar evil cocky grin.

  I’ve seen this face before. I saw this face this morning. “Do I know you?”

  She comes even closer with a little twirl. “Do you play for the Falcons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You probably know my twin brother, Al. I’m Alice.”

  “Yeah well, I haven’t got too familiar,” I say. “Rookies get cut all the time, so tell your brother not to get comfortable.’

  Twin brother. That makes sense. A wave of hate flows through my body now, and I’m angry I ever thought this girl was pretty.

  “You know,” Alice says, grabbing my stick from me, “I heard people say that he might break the scoring record this year.”

  I cross my arms. “Yeah, what people?”

  “Just people.” She smirks the same smirk that punk gave me earlier. She pulls the stick back and shoots the puck. It misses the net by a mile, but she’s not even holding the stick properly. She shrugs. “I’ve never been good at hockey.”

  “Must run in the fam—”

  “Not like my brother.” She interrupts me. “They say he might even be better than Tremblay. That Hayden’s all hype, no actual follow through.”

  She drops the stick and it clatters to the ice. A dark shadow trails her as she circles me then skates off the ice. “See you around. Maybe at one of my brother’s games.”

  I don’t say anything, just watch as she sashays away. Finally, I find the words and shout: “Not if I see you first!”

  But she’s already gone.

  …

  Alice

  It’s no wonder so many talented players choke when it’s game time. There’s so much stimuli: the roaring crowd, the sea of royal blue jerseys with the soaring white falcon, the red flash of the timer on the screen. If you let all that outside stuff get to you, you can’t concentrate on the only thing that matters: the puck.

  Of course, there is one sensation I can’t help noticing. I shift my weight from one butt cheek to the other, and wonder if I can rub my numb ass without anyone noticing. Although, maybe that would be considered a guy-ish thing to do.

  I’ve been sitting on this damn bench the majority of the game. I’m not too bummed; as a rookie, I can’t expect much ice time until I prove myself. And I’m working on it. I already got an assist on Hayden Tremblay’s goal last period. Who knows what other magic I could have created out there? Unfortunately, Hayden refuses to pass to me. Maybe he’s mad about what “Alice” said to him last night. I just couldn’t help myself — he needs to be taken down a peg, or fifty.

  Either way, we’re down a goal in the third period, and there’s only two minutes left.

  Coach Z whacks me on the back. “Tremblay, Bell, get out there. Let’s see you score another one.”

  I jerk at the sound of my name. Two minutes left and Coach is putting me in? He must really be desperate. I jump over the boards and skate to the middle of the rink.

  Hayden is a centre, so he’s in position to take the faceoff. I’m a right-winger — a goal scorer, a playmaker. I steady my breathing and keep my stick on the ice. I have to shut everything out. But my eyes drift to Hayden. His jaw is set, dark eyes determined. Anger flickers in his gaze.

>   I’ve been told so many times, “It’s just a game.” But that’s not true. Hockey has never been just a game to me—it’s been my safety net, my anchor, my purpose. And the look on Hayden’s face makes me think he feels the same.

  The puck drops and I tear myself from space and back onto the rink. Hayden wins the puck, and I sprint down the ice, narrowly avoiding a collision with the opposing defensemen. I get into position and I’m wide open. Hayden careens toward me with the puck, and I smack my stick so he can see I’m open. He looks at me—

  And shoots the puck straight at the net.

  Bastard!

  The goalie easily covers the puck and the ref stops play.

  We skate toward the faceoff circle. “I was wide open,” I say to Hayden.

  He doesn’t even look at me.

  Another puck drops and Hayden loses. I chase the puck toward our end. With only a minute left, we don’t have time to be near our net!

  I dart into the end zone to steal the puck, but an opposing player charges at me. I gasp, narrowly dodging out his way as he slams against the boards. My heart pounds in my chest. Damn, the players are aggressive. And huge. If I put myself in there, they’ll be scraping pieces of me off the ice.

  One of our opponents shoots the puck, and it dings off the post, sailing straight for me. Instinct takes over, and I snatch the puck up. My legs may not be as long as anyone else’s, and my body might not be as big, but I’m fast. And now it’s just me, with nine players struggling in my wake.

  The goalie looms before me, a boulder in my path. But this is my breakaway. This is my game.

  And this will be my goal.

  I shoot and the puck sails straight through the goalie’s five-hole.

  The light goes off, the buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts louder than anything I’ve ever heard before.

  I scored?

  I scored!

  My team wraps around me, and I’m lost amidst the giants smothering me with hugs. I lean my head back, taking in the sea of royal blue jerseys on their feet.

  But then I see one blue jersey skating back toward the bench. Number nine. Hayden Tremblay. I guess even forcing the game into overtime isn’t enough to earn his respect.

  I plop back down on the bench, feeling as if it’s a throne. Coach pats my helmet. “Nice breakaway, kid.”

  “Thanks,” I say, beaming.

  Overtime slugs by—a heart pounding, goalless five minutes. And that means it’s time for a shootout.

  My skates tap nervously on the ground. Shootouts have always been my strong suit. My team could count on me as their clutch girl.

  I look at the opposing team’s goalie. I can already tell his left side is his weak point. I could get up close, deke right, then sneak it in his left side…

  Coach scribbles on his clipboard; he needs to submit his three players for the shootout. “Okay, Sacachelli, Gerver, and Trem—”

  “Coach.” I stand up. “Put me out there. I know what to do.”

  I hear an audible scoff from Hayden but ignore it. Coach Z stares at me from under his bushy eyebrows then flips open his clipboard. “You got bad stats in shootouts from your last league, Bell. I don’t think so.”

  Shit! Xander blew at shootouts, and now I’m stuck with his crappy stats. “Trust me, Coach,” I plead. “Weren’t you watching my breakaway? I can do this.”

  Hayden stands up. “Sit down, rookie. Maybe when you hit puberty, you can take a turn.”

  Coach flicks his eyes between us, and I can almost see the rusty wheels spinning beneath his thinning hair. “All right, Bell, you’re up. Don’t fuck this up.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Hayden roars, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the ground.

  “What makes you think I trust you to shoot,” Coach says to Hayden, “if you don’t know how to pass?”

  Hayden looks like his head is about to fly off his shoulders. I can’t help myself. I flash him the smallest of smiles.

  My pride quickly turns to fear as I stare out on the ice. Coach tells us the shooting lineup: I’ll be last to shoot. Maybe Sacachelli and Gerver will come through and it won’t even get to me.

  Heart pounding, I watch as our goalie easily stops the first shot against us. I cheer on Sacachelli as he skates out to center ice. But as soon as he picks up the puck, I can tell he’ll flub the shot. His grip on the stick is too tight, his knees locked. His shot bounces harmlessly off the goalie’s pads.

  Three more shots to go before the game rests on my shoulders. Our goalie stops the next shot, but then Gerver rings the puck off the post. I hold my breath. If the other team scores this next shot, they win. If they don’t…it’s up to me.

  My eyes follow the puck as it travels from our opponent’s stick, flies through the air, and smashes into our goaltender’s glove.

  All eyes on the bench turn to me. I can practically feel the heat searing through my body from Hayden’s vicious gaze.

  “Get out there, Bell,” Coach says. “We’re counting on you.”

  Blood rushes to my ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. If I score, we win the game.

  I jump over the boards and as soon as my skates hit the ice, my nervousness is gone. Fear has travelled through me, leaving nothingness in its path. And I replace that nothingness with a single thought:

  Score.

  Sometimes I visualize what I’m going to do, and I can replicate it perfectly. Sometimes I don’t know where I’ll shoot the puck until I finally do it. And right now, instinct takes over. The puck is on my stick, I spin, swipe to the left, shoot…

  The net lights up.

  The Falcons erupt, jumping over the bench and crowding onto the ice. We embrace and high-five one another until we’re all raspy voiced and exhausted. Finally, it’s time to head toward the showers. Just as I’m about to leave the ice, I see the puck still lying in the net.

  I scoop it up. A souvenir, from my first game with the Falcons.

  I turn and skate toward the benches. There’s still one player left—the only player who didn’t join in the celebration. His wavy brown hair falls over his face, but I can tell his gaze is distant.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Hayden jumps and looks up. “What?”

  I feel as if I just sprinted down the ice—my heart flutters in my chest, and I can hardly breathe. “Uh, I just…” I clear my throat, and make sure to deepen my voice a few octaves, like Xander taught me to. “I, uh, just thought you might want the game-winning puck. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Slowly, Hayden reaches out and takes the puck. He twirls it between his fingers—then whips it across the rink. It smashes against the boards.

  “Just stay out of my way,” he sneers and storms toward the locker room.

  I wait until I can no longer see number nine to throw my head back and open my mouth as loud as I can. I want to scream, but I haven’t practiced my boy scream yet, so it would probably come out too girly.

  Screw Hayden Tremblay. I’ve tried to be nice, but I’m the one who scored the tying goal and won the shootout. Heck, he won’t even pass to me. From now on, Tremblay better stay out of my way.

  Chapter Five

  Alice

  It’s been twenty-four hours since I killed it at yesterday’s game, but I’m still beaming. It doesn’t matter that I had to wake up an hour early for school to clip my extensions in, and it certainly doesn’t matter that Hayden Tremblay hates me—I’m on top of the world!

  “Ma, watch this!” I call from the top of the stairs.

  She looks up at me from under her thick, cat-eye glasses. “Alice, if you’re about to do what I think you are—”

  “Whee!” I slide down the bannister, gaining enough momentum to perform a perfect upright spin as I sail off.

  Mom sighs audibly. “If only you twirled like that on the ice.”

  I jog into the dining room and plop down at the table. Xander was on dinner duty tonight, and there’s a plethora of steaming dishes laid out. He alw
ays does a way better job cooking than I do. Of course, there’s only two plates set out. I can’t remember the last time Mom joined us.

  Strangely enough, she’s followed me into the dining room and sits down at the table.

  Xander and I both look at each other. “Uh,” I say, “are you eating with us?”

  She wrinkles her nose as if I’ve just wildly offended her. “Am I not allowed?”

  Hesitantly, I stand and grab an extra plate and fork from the kitchen. This is weird. She must want something.

  “So, Alice,” she says, raising a perfectly arched brow, “have you been practicing your figure skating for the charity events coming up?” She loves to talk in an overly posh way, as if she’s doing a terrible English accent. Maybe she thinks if she over-articulates every word, her point will come across better.

  “I’ve been really busy with school and the women’s hockey team,” I say, stuffing some roast beef in my mouth. “I stay late after hockey practice to go over the Ice Ball routine.”

  Mom sticks out her lip.

  “Ah, Ma,” I say. “Don’t do the lip thing.”

  It goes out even farther.

  “Look what you’ve done,” Xander groans, the first thing he’s said to me all day.

  Now the lip tremble.

  “What, Ma!” I cry. “I’m just so busy! I have homework and practice and classes!”

  “You won’t know the routine,” Mom wails, and her glasses start to fog. “Don’t you know how important this is to me, Alice, to the city?”

  “Great job,” Xander says, handing some napkins to Mom. “Ma’s been working really hard on this charity Ice Ball, Al. And you’ve just been spending all your time playing hockey.”

  I shoot Xander a look. Why’s he throwing me under the bus when he knows why I’ve been so busy?

  “I’ve only just started this job,” Mom says, amidst sniffles. “Do you know how hard it is to come from a small town and suddenly be the head of the seventy-fourth largest non-profit in Chicago?”

  I resist rolling my eyes. She’ll tell me.

  “Extremely hard!” Mom blows her nose into one of the napkins. “And I’ve been working day and night to pull off this charity skate—”