Page 1 of Behind the Bench

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

The cold air whips me in the face as I skate as fast as I can down the ice. The crowd is larger than normal tonight because of the rivalry between our two teams, but their screams are simply background noise to me. The only things I hear as I try to catch up to Link are the crunch of the ice where my skates dig in and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being on the ice. It’s the one place where I feel like I belong. Like I matter. I was born to be a hockey player. It’s as simple as that.

At the age of sixteen, I’m the last girl in the league to still compete against the boys. Most are playing in an all-girls league, but it wasn’t competitive enough for me. I refuse to settle for anything less than the best. If I want to be the best, I have to play against the best. And right now, at this age, that means competing against the boys.

I love this sport. Nothing compares to the moment when the puck leaves my stick and hits the back of the net. Theadrenaline I feel every time I lace up my skates is unmatched to any other feeling in the world.

Unfortunately for me, it looks like the puck is going to end up in our net if I don’t catch up to Link. My arms pump and I push with everything I have. With one hand on my stick, I reach out and try to poke the puck away from Link, but it’s too late. He releases a quick wrist shot and the puck sails over my goalie’s right shoulder.

Damn it.

Link skates to the corner of the rink with his arms in the air and his team converges on him in a giant group celebration.

Frustrated with myself for not being fast enough to catch him, I slam my stick on the ice and curse loud enough that the ref glares at me. I dip my head in shame and mutter out a quiet “Sorry, ref” before heading to the bench.

Lifting my stick above my head, I try to catch my breath as I skate across the ice. Hockey may be my pride and joy, but there’s nothing worse than putting everything you have into the game and losing when the final buzzer sounds. I look up at the scoreboard to see thirty-four seconds left on the clock. We’re down by two now and there’s no coming back from that.

I can’t believe we’re about to lose to his team.Again. Any other team but Link’s team.

I’m halfway to the bench when I feel the tug on my ponytail. “Youalmostcaught me in time, Blondie. Almost.”

God, I fucking hate this guy. We’ve been playing against each other for ten years now, and Link is the biggest asshole I know.

I squeeze my hands as tight as I can around my stick and will myself not to swing it and knock that gorgeous, but oh so fucking irritating, grin off his face.

He’s skating past me when I scream out my rebuttal. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d let you score one after I heard youhaven’t been able to score off the ice since your girlfriend dumped you for your goalie.”

Petty? Yeah. But it does the trick. That comment wipes the smile right off his face, and I don’t even have to get a game misconduct to do it.

Lincoln Scott is the bane of my existence.

He’s sure to remind me every game.“Girls can’t play hockey. You’ll never go pro. Why are you wasting your time?”

The funny thing is, I ask myself that question more times than I’d like to admit, but unlike him, I have the answers.

I can play and I will.

I may not go to the NHL, but I’ll still go pro—thank you, Professional Women's Hockey League.

And it will never be a waste of my time.

Because hockey is my life. It’s the reason I wake up in the morning. The crunch of the ice beneath my skates is music to my ears. Nothing else matters when I step on the ice. It’s only me and my dreams. I’m the only one who can make them happen.

And I will.

I stand just inside my hotel room and drop my bags so I can take in my current living situation. It’s not much, but it’s more than I can ask for on such short notice.

To my left is a small kitchenette with a stainless steel microwave and mini-fridge. There’s a single-cup Keurig machine sitting on the counter next to the sink, and I make a mental note to order some of my favorite caramel creamer when I do a small grocery delivery later. Without a stove, there’s going to be a lot of room service and takeout until I find myself an apartment.

Taking a few steps into the living space, I’m surprised at how homey it feels. Covering the walls are three beautiful watercolor paintings. I take a step closer to see that they are each a different part of the city. One is of Lambeau Field. Another is the city skyline at sunset. But the last one is easily my favorite. It’s a painting of the Fox River, which is almost identical to the view outside the window to my left. The water is turquoise blue and lined with greenery and buildings that I’m almost positive are the actual buildings I can see outside my window.

Once I’m done admiring the paintings, I finish the shorttour of my hotel room. There’s a fake palm plant sitting in the corner of the room next to the window. An impressive-size desk sits adjacent to the dresser, which has an enormous TV hung above it, and the king-size bed in the center of the room looks like an absolute dream.

I take my sunglasses off the top of my head and toss them onto the desk. Removing my running shoes, I take a Lambeau leap onto the bed.

Hey, if I’m going to be a local, I might as well join in on all things Green Bay.

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