Any Way You Slice It (6 page)

Of course my debut on the ice is in front of the whole team and I'm clueless on how to keep my balance with all this weight on me. I'd give my left arm to just sit and watch. I should have practiced privately with Jake and the coach before skating with the whole team.

Lori tosses me the helmet and looks down at my stocking feet. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Shoot.” The bag with my skates is on the bleachers.

“You'd be lost without me,” she says, and jogs down the hallway. I do the equivalent of the bathroom shuffle out the door and follow Jake toward what feels like the electric chair. My heart is pounding, and I'm not sure if it's because of excitement or terror.

“Are you ready?” Jake's balancing on his blades, looking as comfortable as he would in sneakers. I've never figured out how to walk in skates off the ice.

At the end of the hall, I slide onto the nearest bench. There's a small crowd watching the guys practice. Lori already has the skates out of my bag. Dad's old hockey skates look beat, but I'm grateful I never liked the figure skates Mom's always wanted me to wear. I can't reach my feet with the bulky gear on, so Lori laces me up.

“What are you going to do if I'm not here? I may not always be able to be your personal assistant.” She ties a bow with a flourish.

“Bite your tongue.” I can't think about doing this without her.

“I could always help,” Jake says with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

Lori smacks his arm as she stands up, but she looks at me with a serious expression. “Don't tell me I didn't warn you about this dude.”

She pulls me to my feet and sort of pushes me to the opening onto the ice. I wobble as I step out and cringe. I can skate circles around these guys. But the equipment feels like it weighs at least twenty-five pounds. I think of the times I saw Disney on Ice as a Girl Scout, and suddenly I can feel what it's like to skate around the ice in a Mickey Mouse suit. It certainly can't be more awkward than this.

Six of the guys are on the ice and five more are on a bench against the far wall. They all gawk like I'm an alien from planet Venus. Or maybe it's my imagination, because the next second they are all very busy looking anywhere but in my direction.

Jake points to the goalie. “You've got Carter in net. Johnson and Temple on defense, and Jimmy Flores on right wing. I'll take left wing, and Coach wants you to start at center.”

I stare at Jake. I must have heard him wrong. There's no way I can play center; it's like the quarterback of hockey. I watch hockey, but that doesn't make me qualified to play center.

So of course I say, “Sure, no problem.”

“Fake it till you make it,” my new motto.

I look around and I wonder what Jake and the coach told the team, because it's almost too obvious they are ignoring me. Coach gives the high sign, and all the guys get out on the ice. They've clearly done this drill before—they practically fall over each other to race up and down the ice like they're being chased by the zombie apocalypse.

Jake thrusts the stick back in my hand before skating away. I'm left standing alone, not really sure what to do when Coach skates over. “Glad you're here, Spaulding. I wasn't sure we were going to see you today.”

“Believe me. I wasn't sure you were going to see me today.” I glance at Jake skating toward the net. “But I'm glad I'm here, too.”

Coach looks me up and down. “My son wore that gear when he was ten,” he says, then nods in approval. “It's a perfect fit for you.”

Great. I'm the size of a ten-year-old boy. I look at the other kids skating around the rink. Some of them looked scrawny the other night, like maybe they're freshmen, but they all look huge in full gear. “Um. Is that going to be a problem? I mean I've seen some pretty nasty stuff in the videos I've been watching.”

He shakes his head. “Your job is scoring. Shooting pucks into the net. You'll have protection from defense. Don't worry, no one's going to touch you.”

His confidence is not reassuring. Especially when at that moment, two kids collide because they're not paying attention. Jimmy Flores staggers on his skates and looks like a strong wind might blow him over.

“Damn it, Flores. Learn how to skate!” Carter yells from his position in the net. Flores blushes deep red and glances over his shoulder, wobbling even more. A few more choice profanities from Carter, and I'm wondering what I've gotten myself into.

Coach hasn't stopped talking. “Get yourself comfortable on the ice today. Just skate around the edge—you've got to get used to the equipment to the point you don't even know you're wearing it. Like it's an extension of your body. You've got to focus on the game, not on the way your pads are digging into your legs.” He points to the far end. “Skate to the logo on the boards, and back again. Do it ten times.”

“When am I going to be able to shoot?”

Oh my God, I'm totally whining like a baby. What did I expect? Of course he's not going to let me shoot on the first day.

He shakes his head and grins. “We'll see how you do today. If you can get up and back ten times without falling flat on your face, you can take a shot.”

Coach skates away from me and starts yelling at Flores to get out of the zone. I'm kinda shell-shocked, but also feeling really sorry for Flores. At least I won't get yelled at for not being able to skate.

“Everyone! Give me twenty red line–blue line sprints!” Coach yells. “You too, Flores!”

I came all this way, lied to my parents about being at the library, struggled into the disgusting used gear and he's not even going to let me take a shot. I slam my glove against the board and push off the wall, determined to show Coach and the team what I can do. My balance is off with the gear. I have no peripheral vision under the helmet. And I'm pretty sure Lori tied my skates too tight, because my left foot is tingling.

“Go, Spaulding!” she screams from the stands.

In reply, someone yells, “Beware, Pizza Princess on the ice!”

Everyone laughs, and my face burns. I whip my head around, but I can't tell who said it and it nearly sends me sprawling because I'm not used to the way this helmet fits.

“Cut the crap, Johnson,” Carter yells from the goal. “Have you seen the girl skate? You better watch yourself if she can shoot half as good as she skates!”

I wave at Carter to thank him, but he scowls and looks away. Damn. I put my head down and keep skating.

I don't know Johnson, but the next second Jake smashes someone into the boards and I'm pretty sure he's giving a lecture about trash-talking your teammates.

I shoot an encouraging smile at Flores as I pass him, but I know it's impossible to see the expression on my face behind the cage of my helmet. “You got this, Jimmy,” I whisper, hoping he can hear me.

“Eff you,” he says, and pulls ahead of me.

I'm not sure what I expected, but this definitely isn't it.

About halfway to the line on my fourth lap, I lose my balance and my right skate goes completely out from under me. It feels like an eternity in the air, before I land on my butt. I haven't tripped over my own feet on the ice since I was eight.

“Crap.”

Jake is right there, pulling me up. “Don't worry about it. We all fall a crap load during practice.”

I glance around to see if anyone saw him help me—surprisingly there's no jeering about my lack of grace. Of course they are all busy pretending to look the other way. “Coach told me I had to make it back and forth ten times from the wall, or he wouldn't let me shoot today.”

“Just keep at it.” Jake whispers. “Chances are he didn't see you fall. And even if he did, if it looks like you're trying and committed, he'll let you take the shot.” He leans over to demonstrate. “The trick is to bend your knees. Keep your head up and use your stick for balance if you need to.”

“What the hell!” yells Carter from the net. “Way to keep your skates under you!”

To preserve my sanity, I pretend he's yelling at Flores again and pick up my stick. I fall twice more, but it gets easier. Jake's advice really helps. By the end of practice, I don't actually notice the equipment that much anymore. Coach lets me take three shots. They all hit the net dead center and I can't help but pump my arm in the air on the third.

“Carter,” Coach yells. “Go back in there and block.”

Carter skates back to the net and assumes what looks like his crouching tiger position. I line up the way the tutorial on YouTube suggested. This is how it's going to be in a real game. The opposing team isn't going to let me shoot a puck at an empty goal. Of course they'll also have defense trying to stop me from shooting.

Carter deflects my first shot, but just barely. Cheers erupt from the bench. I hear variations of “Way to go, Carter!”

I change the position of my hands on the stick and shoot again. This time, I try a wrist shot and aim it over Carter's glove.

It goes in.

Thank God for YouTube.

“Whoa, great shot Spaulding!” Applause and cheers from the guys, for me this time.

But a few voices are berating the goalie. “What the hell, Carter? You just got scored on by a girl!”

I slam my stick into ice and glare at the bench, trying to figure out who the haters are. I don't know why I didn't expect this reaction from them. I was too worried about my dad; it just never occurred to me I'd have a problem with the team, too. But if I prove I can play, maybe it won't be too hard to win them over.

That is,
if
I decide to play.

When I skate toward the bench, most of them are still cheering. Except Johnson, who won't look at me. On my way off the ice, I get a few slaps on the back that nearly knock me over, and a bunch of “great jobs” as we toddle toward the locker room. Jake jogs over to give me a high five. “That was awesome.”

That's more like it.

“C'mon in here for a minute, Spaulding,” the Coach says. “We just like to do a quick pep talk before we hit the showers.”

The men's locker room.

This should be interesting.

As soon as I set foot into the men's locker room, I'm immediately knocked backward by the holy-crap-I-have-never-smelled-anything-more-rank-than-this smell. It's a combination of body odor, sweaty socks, and wet dog. It's like no one has washed their equipment. Ever. All at the same time. Multiplied by a thousand. I gag a couple of times.

How can they stand this stench?

I'm staring at the floor as guys start to strip. Johnson gets all the way down to bare chest before Coach clears his throat. “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?”

At the word “ladies,” every one of them stops undressing as though just remembering I'm in the room. I back up against the door, so I can make a quick getaway, and casually cover my nose and mouth with the back of my hand.

I pull off my helmet and try to smile, but I'm afraid it probably looks like I'm trying to hold back vomit.

Which I am.

“I'd like to welcome our newest player.” Coach gestures to me.

I wave and then quickly put my hand back over my mouth.

“Penelope Spaulding is a second-generation hockey player, replacing Matt Pearson,” he says.

“What?” Johnson says. “She's going to play with us all the time?” Without his gear on, Johnson is still huge—his abs are ripped. This kid definitely throws off the curve. He's got to outweigh the other guys by fifty pounds of muscle. He's leaning against the far wall and glares at me. I have no idea what's up with him.

Carter seems to have bounced back from his earlier embarrassment. He's straddling the wooden bench in the middle of the room, looking comfortable. He winks at me, but he doesn't say anything. I decide to keep my eye on Carter; aside from Jake, he might be my best ally.

The rest of them look at me like deer caught in the headlights.

“Didn't you guys see her skate? She's amazing. Fast.” Jake smiles encouragingly. I try not to stare. “What's the issue? The Nashua Night Dragons
have girls.” He makes eye contact with everyone. “Anyone have a problem?”

Some grumbling, but no one objects again.

No one warned them. Knowing they got blindsided sucks.

Coach clears his throat. “I'd like you all to give her our team welcome.”

Jake gestures for them all to stand and he makes a big show of being a conductor. The guys join him and start clapping and stomping their feet in unison.

Stomp-stomp. Clap-clap
. “The Rats are in the house!”

“The Rats are in the house,” they all respond to Jake's call.

“Heigh-ho the derry-o, the Rats are in the house!”

I start to applaud politely, but there's a second verse. Of course.

“You better hide the cheese.”
Stomp-stomp. Clap-clap.

“You better hide the cheese.”

“Heigh-ho the derry-o, you better hide the cheese!” The stomping reaches a fever pitch and they wrap it all up with a cheer of, “Rink Rats! Rink Rats! Rink Rats!” Then they make a sort of roaring noise and throw their helmets into the air. It's very testosterone-y.

I laugh out loud before I realize they are totally serious. I clap enthusiastically. “That was … um … really something special.”

Coach Walsh looks like he wants me to say something more.

I stare at the faces. Mostly they say
I just want to get out of this smelly gear and shower
.

“Thanks for the warm welcome? I'm happy to be here?” They think I'm totally lying. And they're right. I can't wait to be out of this locker room.

“Do we get free pizza now?” Mark Temple asks, dropping his pads on the floor. Temple towers over everyone else; he should play basketball instead of hockey.