Breakaway (4 page)

That means eleven girls are not making the team. Once cuts are made, will the fifth defenceman only get to play if one of the other four gets hurt or benched?

“...practices will begin on the Tuesday following the Labour Day weekend. You’ll be on the ice three times a week and have a dryland session every Wednesday. Attendance will be mandatory unless prior arrangements are made with your coach...”

I’ll have to hit the gym or the road
every
day until then, I think. If I make the team, she’ll expect me to show up in shape after Labour Day.

“...wondering about who will be the head coach. Minor Hockey is confident they’ll find the best possible candidate in the next few weeks. What you need to do is concentrate on having a good tryout and showing us...”

What if they don’t find a qualified candidate? What if one of the dads has to take over? What if Mr. Johnstone ends up on the bench?

“...drills will be far more difficult than the ones you may be accustomed to. They will challenge you both mentally and physically...”

Some of the ones we did on the Rage last year were hard enough. Like that triangular offensive cycling
/
defensive support drill. Every time we did it, it felt like the first time.

Soon enough, we find out Sue isn’t kidding about the difficulty of the drills. She starts off with power skating, working on inside and outside edge holds. Testing linear, lateral and transitional speeds. It’s clear she’s concentrating on assessing our individual skills and ferreting out our weaknesses.

Finally she tells a Bruin to toss out the pucks.

Teneil and some of the other girls struggle with the puck handling and passing exercises. They can skate well, but they don’t have soft hands.

Hands are something Sue can’t teach.

Some dads have drifted in to watch us. I’ve heard them over the years, murmuring amongst themselves during those long breaks between tournament games, or in the lobby after a tough loss. They all respect Sue, but they have their own ideas about coaching just the same.

“If only she’d shorten the bench more often,” they say. “She tries too hard to be fair.”

But this year, Sue won’t be taking any prisoners. Her whole approach has changed.

“Really looking forward to fitness testing tomorrow,” Randi gasps, lining up behind me.

“Me too.”

I’m watching Amy at the other end of the ice where Mr. Johnstone and the Bruins’ starting netminder are working with her. Right now they’re passing to each another, then shooting on Amy, forcing her to shift rapidly from side to side. As big as she is, she’s smooth and confident in her movements, and she never takes her eyes off the puck.

Carla gives me a little push from behind.

I’m up.

–
Chapter Three
–

W
hen our skills session
ends, the other “team” is lined up along the Plexiglas, watching us. They’re wearing black jerseys with orange numbers.

Amber Kowalski is blocking my path as I step off the ice. She’s staring over my shoulder, like Bambi in the headlights.

“Hey.” I give Amber a little poke. “How about making some room?”

Amber steps back, and her big blue eyes shift to my face.

She’s terrified.

“You’ll be okay,” I tell her.

“I’ve never tried out for
anything,”
she says.

Miranda’s standing behind Amber, with much the same expression. She’s likely heard about Amy Fox. Her dream of being our starting goaltender is going up in smoke.

As I walk by, I make eye contact with each girl in a black jersey. There’s Jennifer McQueen, my D partner from two years ago who, like me, has given up school sports so she can focus on hockey. Larissa Bilkhu was a solid centreman for us last year, all the while juggling her commitment to senior girls’ basketball. Crystal Jordan shelved her pads a few years ago when we had too many goalies.

I tap knuckles with all of them and turn towards the hallway. A door opens, and another player steps out, nearly running into me. I’d know that Reebok helmet anywhere.

Jodi Palmer.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she says. “How’d your session go?”

“Okay.” I move aside so the girls behind me can get past. Jodi nods and smiles at each of them.

“You never told me you were trying out,” I say when the last one has gone by.

“I’ve been praying about it,” she says.

How am I supposed to respond to that? Jesus is wrong? You’re not supposed to be playing AAA because your brain will be mush if you get another concussion?

“Good luck,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She continues down the hallway.

Last fall Jodi wanted to play with us, but she was still battling weak knees, headaches, and nausea. Skating backwards was impossible.

Since Christmas, she’s been steadily improving. She started skating with a senior ladies’ team and competed in track and field at school.

The thing about Jodi is: she doesn’t know how to hold back. If she makes our team, she’ll go hard into the corners. Forecheck aggressively. Drive to the net.

It’s too dangerous.

In the dressing room, some girls are discussing the Bruins who helped with our ice session. I wonder if it’s just a ploy to cover what they’re really thinking...

If I don’t make this team, where in the hell am I going to play?

“Did your dad know Jodi was coming out?” I ask Whitney.

“He talked her into it,” she says.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Sounds like you don’t want Jodi on the team,” Whitney speculates. “Are you afraid she’ll be the defensive star you wish
you
were?”

“Take a hike,” Kathy says. “You know Jessie’s not like that.”

“You
take a hike,” Whitney says. “This is Jodi’s decision. You should quit bashing her for wanting to come back.”

“And you should quit pushing our buttons,” Kathy says.

“Whitney, you weren’t around when Jodi had her accident,” I say, “so you don’t know how risky this is.”

“She looked fine at hockey school this summer,” Whitney says. “I think you guys are exaggerating how bad her head injury is.”

“Spoken like someone who is suffering from her own head injury,” Kathy says.

I jump in before Kathy starts shooting her mouth off again. “Look, Whitney, everybody appreciates what your dad’s done to help us go AAA...”

“Enough of your phony team building shit,” Whitney interrupts. “You’re going to be gone next year. You don’t give a rat’s ass about what happens after you graduate.”

“Whitney’s right,” Randi says. “There aren’t enough younger girls coming up to make a team. That’s why
I
voted to go AAA.”

My phone starts vibrating on the bench. I pick it up and see the message from Pam.

Ready, it says.

I start pulling on my shorts and T-shirt.

“Aren’t you showering?” Kathy asks.

“I’ll shower at home.” I hurl the last of my equipment in my bag.

“Way to go, Johnstone,” Kathy says.

“Screw you, Parker,” Whitney says.

I heft my bag onto my shoulder. “I suggest we
all
go home and take a shower. We’re setting a poor example for the new girls.”

“You got that right,” Amy Fox says.

It’s the first time she’s addressed us.

I continue. “Let’s each focus on having a good camp. We can’t control who’s here – or who’s not. Let’s concentrate on the things we
can
control.”

I leave the rink without so much as a glance at the ice surface. I don’t want to know how it’s going out there for Jodi or Amber or my other teammates.

There’s nothing I can do to help any of them.

–

S
aturday morning is hell. We go to the curling rink – where there’s no ice – to start our fitness testing. I come out okay on weight, height, and the vertical jump, and I think...this isn’t so hard.

Then Sue brings out the whistles and stopwatches.

The beep test is awful, but it’s not the worst. The RHIET or Repeated High Intensity Endurance Test is criminal. Pylons are set forty metres apart. We have thirty seconds to run from one pylon and back to the start line. The time we don’t use is time to rest.

It’s only six times, I think. That’s three minutes. How bad can it be?

I soon find out.

Agonized lungs screaming for air. Muscles on fire. Guts aching. I want to curl up and die.

Then we head over to the fitness centre for bench press. I haven’t done much of this before because Sue always told us we were too young to weight train. At the end of this station, I learn my one-rep max is eighty pounds. Decent. But Carla out-presses all of us with ninety-five.

I go home, eat and have a nap before driving back to the rink for the controlled scrimmage. Mom comes along to watch.

On the ice, I take my own advice. Control the things I can control. Move my feet. Get to the puck first. Find some chemistry with a new defenceman. I shut Jodi down each time she comes to my side, frustrating the hell out of her.

Focus.

–

F
irst cuts. Amber is the last one out of the dressing room, bag on her shoulder, sticks in hand, head so low I can’t see her big blue eyes.

Marty is right behind her.

From the wet patches on Amber’s cheeks, I know he’s already told her she’s off the team. He puts his arm around her and guides her towards the exit.

She gives me a shaky smile before she disappears from view.

–
Chapter Four
–

W
hat time’s Evan leaving
for Calgary tomorrow?” I ask Breanne, Evan’s little sister.
We’re sitting at the Gedaks’ kitchen counter colouring, while I wait for Evan to finish getting ready for the Saturday night church service.

“Early,” Breanne says.

“You going along?” I ask.

She shakes her blonde pigtails. “Just Mom. She says he’ll need help buying stuff for his apartment.” She shows me some pictures she’s already drawn and coloured. “These are for him to put on his fridge.”

“Good for you, Short Stuff.” I get an empty feeling when I look at the picture she drew of Evan in his Dinos uniform. “He must be pretty excited about making the squad this year, huh?”

Breanne nods, blonde pigtails jiggling.

Evan red-shirted last year with the University of Calgary basketball team, which means he practiced with the Dinos but didn’t play any games. This year he’ll try to crack the starting lineup as a point guard.

If anybody can do
that,
Evan can.

He’s single-minded in anything he pursues. His overall average was 93.4 percent last year even though he was taking three labs and practicing nearly every day. The only thing he’s failed at getting is...

Me.

“Ready to go?” Evan asks from the doorway.

His voice startles me, and I swing around on the high stool to look at him. He grew another inch over the summer, adding to a cumulative total of 6'5". His dark hair is cut very short, which makes his broad forehead more prominent.

“Sure.” I reach for my purse and keys.

“Can I come too?” Breanne asks.

“We’ll be out past your bedtime,” Evan says.

“But it’s summer,” Breanne says.

“She’s right,” I inform Evan. “I don’t mind her tagging along. If you don’t.”

Breanne is an A+ chaperone. Her lively chatter keeps our conversation from getting serious.

“Please,” she begs.

Evan picks her up and hangs her by the ankles until she squeals.

Breanne is sitting in Sunny’s back seat when we leave for the service.

All summer I’ve been spending Saturday nights with Evan at his church. Evan’s dad, Rev. Gedak, is the main pastor. Matt, the youth pastor, leads a contemporary service at 7:30 p.m. followed by a teen activity, like basketball or a movie. It’s a welcome change from being around people who talk about partying and guys and sex. I don’t mind going on a booze cruise with Kathy once in a while, but it’s not my thing.

I don’t fit in with Evan’s crowd either. Some of his friends make no secret of the fact I’m not “saved.” I don’t let it bother me because God and I are on good terms – no matter what they think.

T
he tough part about going to Evan’s church is Evan himself. Ever since I was his grad escort, he acts like I’m his girlfriend. He insists on paying if we go out for supper or to a show. He’s hinted about being escort for my grad, but I haven’t asked him yet. I just want to be friends, and things would be perfect if he’d settle for that.

“How’d tryouts go today?” he asks as I pull onto Souris Drive.

“Five girls got cut,” I tell him.