Any Way You Slice It (13 page)

On the bus, I text Lori. She'll help me figure out how I'm going to be watching a game with my parents, but play in the game at the same time. There's no way I can do a quick change, even with help.

Pretend you have a fever
, her text says
.
Last minute, play sick.

It's so lame it might work.

My parents spend the next two days talking about Wednesday's game. “I can't remember the last time I watched a game in person,” Dad muses on Tuesday night over dinner, a bigger smile on his face than I've seen in ages.

“I remember exactly which game I last watched in person,” Grams says darkly, looking up as she cuts her chicken breast. I look down at my plate because I know she's lying, but I don't want to give either of us away.

Dad ignores it because I know there's no way he didn't hear her.

I can't figure out why they are so excited. But for whatever reason, it's working out perfectly. Everyone knows I'm going to the rink to watch with them, so Jules has agreed to take my shift and Grams will back her up. Steve's coming in early to set up the bar. Wednesday isn't the busiest day of the week, and my parents have promised both Jules and Steve time and a half for stepping up. Jules is thrilled, she's always teasing Mom about making her a manager so she can spend more time with the family. I can only cross my fingers and pray that Jorge doesn't spill.

When I leave for school, Grams hugs me and whispers, “Good luck, sweetie. I assume this means you're going to tell them today, right?”

I nod. “Let's take care of one problem at a time. I need him to agree to sponsor the team first. Then I'll tell them.”

Hopefully today won't be the day the Restaurant Network decides to show up and film the episode. Dad is sure there will be a heads-up before the shoot, but I'm not convinced. It seems like the show thrives on throwing unexpected things at the owner. But it's not likely they'll show up on a slow Wednesday.

When I walk into the house after school, I cough into my elbow and immediately walk into the bathroom. The lies are about to get knee deep, but I take a breath. I don't have any other choice. The water takes a few minutes to run hot, so I hold my finger under the stream before soaking a wash cloth to wet my face. I don't want to get my clothes wet, but I've got to make it seem like I have a low-grade fever. I walk out slowly, my hand to my mouth. “I just threw up. I don't think I can go this afternoon.”

“Oh no.” Mom rushes over and feels my forehead like I knew she would. She frowns. “You feel a bit clammy.” She shakes her head and frowns. “You shouldn't be sitting in an ice rink all afternoon. Dad can go and watch the game, I'll stay home. Thank goodness we have coverage today.”

“No, Mom. I'll be fine. I told the whole team that you were both going to watch. It's really important to me, I mean—them—that you're there. They're really excited about the sponsorship.” I put on my best good-girl smile.

Mom grumbles a bit about making sure I'm okay, but Dad's waiting at the top of the stairs. “C'mon, Angela. She can text you if she needs you.”

I push her toward the door. “I bet it's just something I ate at lunch. You know how cafeteria food is. It's bad timing. But you should go.”

The Volkswagen is idling around the corner and as soon as my parents leave, Lori pulls into the driveway. I'm out the door before she can honk. “You're going to owe me my first year's college tuition, Pen,” she says.

Lori pulls into the lot, practically on two wheels, and the car screams into a parking space near the rear entrance of the rink. Into the women's locker room and I'm dressed, with Lori's help, in record time—no way I'm going solo today. The trick is going to be getting home again before my parents when the game is over.

But I'm not thinking about that now.

I stumble out of the locker room, gripping Lori's arm for balance. At the men's locker room, I stop to catch my breath. There's no option, I have to do this. I push open the door a fraction of an inch. My plan is to yell in, but I push the door too far and catch a glimpse of someone's bare butt. I drop my hand so the door slams shut.

Lori's grin is the size of the Cheshire cat's. “Well that was worth something.”

The door opens again, and Dylan Johnson is standing in front of us wearing only a towel. “See anything good, ladies? I'd invite you in, but some of my compatriots are, shall we say, indecent.”

I roll my eyes. “Johnson, drop the attitude. I need a jersey. Is there an extra one lying around that I can grab?”

“What did you say? Drop the towel?”

He's such a jerk.

“Johnson, get away from the door.” Suddenly Jake is there, and my heartbeat skips. “What's up?” He furrows his brow and I pretend it doesn't feel like he's scowling at me. At some point, I've got to tell him everything.

Just not yet.

“My parents are in the stands.” I'm hoping that's all the explanation he needs. “I left my jersey at home, is there a spare?”

For a second, I'm not sure what he's going to say. He's just standing there with a funny look on his face, like he's trying to figure out the meaning behind my words. “I'll see if I can find something.”

The door closes and I lean against the wall opposite the door. I hear the buzz of the crowd; the stands are starting to fill up. Not that we get a ton of people watching our games, but everyone playing usually has a few fans. The snack bar is open and if I lean forward, I can see the end of the line. I scoot farther down the wall just in case, my parents happen to indulge in some rink fare.

Not likely, but stranger things have happened lately.

Lori stands next to me, giving me what I think is an encouraging smile. “You should just tell them,” she says. “They're not ogres, they'll understand.”

“Not yet.” I shake my head. On this I'm firm. “I want to prove I belong here, before I come clean.”

A few minutes later, Jake walks into the hallway holding a jersey. It's about three sizes too big for me. “Mathers has the flu. Not sure it's clean, but it's the one that was in his locker. It's the best I can do. Where's yours?” The disappointment in his voice is unmistakable.

I look him in the eye. “I promise, cross my heart, hope to die, I'll tell you later. Right now, you've got to get tell the guys to wear their old Tim's jerseys, not the new ones. Let's win this while my parents are watching and get them to sponsor the team. For real.”

I shove Lori toward the end of the hallway, in the direction of the ice. “You'd better go. Don't let my parents see you, but if they do, make up an excuse why you're here.”

She shakes her head and sighs, but I know she's all in. “You so owe me.” She pulls a notebook out of her coat. “I've already got my cover story, if they ask. I'm covering the game for the school paper. So if Mathers gets a goal, guess who's going to write about it?” She points to herself, and says in a goofy, singsong voice, “This girl.”

The rest of the team streams out of the locker room and I merge with the mob as they move down the corridor. Our sticks line the side of the wall, and I grab mine along with everyone else as we pass the penalty box. Each of us touches the worn paint spot on the wall as we step onto the ice. The cold air hits my face and I forget all my problems. Jake glides by me and grins. I wave to Lori. All is right with the world.

At least it will be for the next forty-five minutes.

The small crowd cheers as we circle the rink and the announcer introduces us one by one from the box. When I hear Mathers's name called, I raise my stick.

The opposing team streams out of the opposite locker room. They. Are. Huge. The building practically shakes when they are finally all announced and on the ice. They have “Manchester Lumber” printed across the front of their jerseys. Through his face mask, I can see that the goalie for the other team has a full beard. Holy Mother of Paul Bunyan.

The front line takes their positions on the ice and the rest of us line up on the bench. I'm on the edge of my seat, leaning forward to make sure I don't miss anything. The referee skates to center ice. Jake and his opponent square up for the face-off. The ref drops the puck and Jake wins it clean.

A few minutes of hard play later, Jake goes into the boards, hit by Manchester Lumber's left wing, and Coach pulls him out. “Spaulding, you're in.”

Jake high-fives me as he steps off the ice. Hope soars for just a second. But he doesn't make eye contact, and it's the same thing he'd do to any of the other guys. So I push the hope down into the bottom of my heart and get back to the task at hand.

I skate wide, trying to get a feel for the ice and check out the competition. Some of these guys have to be at least double my weight. My only advantage is my speed. Beating any of them to the puck will be key—there's no way I'm going to win a fight. I hear Coach's words from my very first practice. “We'll protect you at all times, you won't get hurt.”

I look around me.
Where's that protection we talked about?

“Spaulding!” I hear someone call from behind. “Plug in!” Temple cruises past me and I realize I've been standing with my mouth open while the game resumes around me. I immediately go into defensive mode, pushing myself toward the action.

Flores is scrabbling with a guy in the corner. Johnson and Temple are both there in a half second, and it's hard to see whose stick is whose. Flores makes his best effort to pry the puck from behind the other guy's stick but with one well-placed shove to the chest, the dude from Manchester breaks free and flies toward Carter at the other end of the rink.

I skirt sideways, narrowly avoiding a collision. Johnson glares at me as he flies past. I should have been able to stop the guy. Too bad my first instinct is to get away, not actually go into defensive mode. Jake and Coach are both shaking their heads from the bench.

I'm so worried about getting hurt and skating fast enough to not get hit—I'm totally not playing the game. Even though I don't want to go down again, I've got the take the risk. Or it's just fast skating all over again. Not hockey. I'm not sure I can go back to being an island, now that I've discovered what it's like to be on a team.

Hockey is why I'm here.
Easier said than done, though.

The game is tied at zero when the buzzer sounds at the end of the first period. We've taken a few shots, but their goalie is literally the size of the net and we haven't been able to get anything past him. On the plus side, even though Carter is a moron, he's blocked everything they've shot at him.

We take a break, long enough for everyone to get some water. Half the guys swish and spit onto the same spot behind the bench. Another ritual I don't partake in. I grab my own water bottle and savor every drop, knowing it'll sweat off me the second I'm back on the ice. I glance up at the stands and my heart practically stops. My mother's hunched over her phone and I know she's texting me. Me. Who is supposedly home sick.

Without even stopping to tell Coach, I sprint—or really hobble—on my skates to the women's locker room to grab my phone. Even with my gloves on I can tell I've missed a half-dozen text messages. I'll be lucky she doesn't leave early to go home to check on me.

I whip off one glove and type a quick reply.

Feeling okay. Are they winning?

The buzzer reverberates against the concrete. How is it possible that it's louder back here than on the ice? I've got to get back out there. I text Lori.

Meet me at the gate.

“Take this.” I thrust the phone at her. “Pretend you're me when my mother texts.” Why hadn't I thought of that earlier? Rookie mistake.

I slide against the wall as casually as possible and hope Coach hadn't noticed me missing. I'm ready with my excuse, if he does. I'll just tell him I needed to use the bathroom because of lady issues. Works like a charm with Mr. Ford, in math class.

“Spaulding.”

Uh-oh.

Coach looks serious, like he's about to give me important instructions, when he pauses and turns me around. “Why are you wearing Mathers's jersey? It's way too big for you.”

I shrug it off, hoping it's a rhetorical question he's not really expecting me to answer. Finally he takes a breath. “Doesn't matter. I'm putting Jake in on left wing. He's going to pass off to you out there. I want you to hang high, behind their defense. They won't be too worried about a girl.” He looks at my face. “Sorry, but it's true, and we can use it to our advantage. Keep moving—Jake will hit you with a pass and you'll be in on a breakaway.”

Breakaway? I haven't worked on that yet
…

“Okaaay.” I glance out at the ice, where the other team is already starting to reemerge. Everyone puts their hands in for a team cheer, when suddenly I remember something. “Coach. Who's my bodyguard?”

Coach has already turned his attention to something else. “What? Oh yeah.” He turns to the bench and calls “Johnson and Temple. Make sure no one hits Spaulding.”

It takes Jake a second to register my question. He looks at me, curious. “You've never been worried about being hit before.”

“Not so much worried about being hit. I'm well padded.” I gesture to myself. “It's just that those guys are giants. I don't want to go into the boards. Especially when my parents are watching.” Maybe if I make it more about being embarrassed than being hurt, Jake will lighten up. I try not to think about why he's concerned. I'm still mad at him for being mad at me.

For a quick second, I wonder if I'm in over my head. I've lied to too many people, but I shake off my distraction. As we head back out onto the ice, the crowd cheers. I can't deal with my doubts right now. I catch Lori's eyes as I skate past and she gives me a little wave and a thumbs-up.