Page 21 of Hockey 101

Emily nods enthusiastically. You say that like it’s a form of medieval torture. Games are really fun. The energy of the crowd is great, the play is fast and exciting, and the guy who scores the winning goal might sit next to you in economics lecture. What could be better?

Literally anything. But I don’t voice this opinion. I’m taking this assignment seriously—I’ve already highlighted and annotated my copy of An Idiot’s Guide to Hockey. And last night I fell asleep to a podcast of two guys discussing college hockey teams. Granted, I only lasted about ten minutes, but it was a fruitful ten minutes.

I hear we have some new guys that are really good, Emily says.

Really? Who? I ask. Actually, wait a sec. Let me make a voice memo.

I start recording and hold my phone out as Emily peruses the list of players. Of course, I don’t recognize anyone’s name until she gets to Jack Sinclair.

I’ve heard he’s fast and a good puck mover. Of course, he’s good because he’s from somewhere in Canada—

Rosetown, Saskatchewan, I reply without thinking.

Emily squints down at her phone. Oh my god, how did you know that? Have you memorized the roster already?

No, but that’s a good idea. I add another step to my to-do list.

Jack? Isn’t that the guy you saw naked? Dawn asks slyly.

Andy! The guy you saw naked is on the hockey team? Emily squeals, loudly enough that two women in front of us turn and stare. Or maybe it’s the mention of a naked hockey player?

Emily is a one-woman inquisition. Why didn’t you tell me?! There are many women—and men—who would pay to see a naked hockey god. And you got it for free. Emily zooms in on his tiny roster photo and gasps. Oh wow, he’s really cute. Tell me that his body was as good as his face.

His body was as good as his face, I parrot back flatly.

Don’t mock me. I want details, she insists.

Fine. His butt was enormous.

That’s all I’ll give her, because despite Jack not being my favourite person, it feels like an invasion of his privacy to describe his—admittedly exquisite—physique. After all, it’s not like he voluntarily undressed in front of me. Although, by the way he seems to get around, I’m sure that numerous women on campus are already very familiar. His body is probably splashed all over his social media. Jocks love to take their shirts off at any opportunity.

Emily rolls her eyes. All hockey players have big butts. It’s an occupational ass-et. Get it? She chortles at her own joke.

I ignore her. Look, they’re skating out now. Can we get back to the hockey lessons?

Fine, but you’re telling me the whole story about meeting Jack after the first period, she insists. I demand details.

There’s no story, I mutter. Needless to say, I’ve never told my girlfriends that Jack asked me out, because then they’d nag me to go. Besides, I’m still suspicious. If Jenny is his type, how can I also be his type? I’m her complete opposite. It makes no sense. Maybe I wrote about some sexual perversion in my journal that’s his particular kink?

I recognize Jack when he takes off his helmet in the player’s box thing. He doesn’t look quite as perfect as when I last saw him because he has a dark bruise on his cheek. Maybe he finally ran into some girl’s boyfriend? He tosses back his hair, puts on his helmet, and skates out.

I shake my head and focus back on my notes. I ask Emily, What do you mean by a ‘puck mover’? Don’t they all move the puck?

She points to the net. The goalie is the last line of defence. Two defencemen play in front of him.

I nod. I’ve seen the positions diagrammed in my book.

But the defencemen also start the offence, because they recover the puck after the other team shoots. The best defencemen pass the puck up quickly, so our team can counterattack.

Like a basketball team, Joy interjects.

I hold up a hand. Stop. My brain only has room for one sport at a time.

I don’t understand how you can have lived so long without knowing anything at all about any sports, Joy says. Were there no teams at your high school?

Of course there were. But I prioritized. Like Einstein not wanting to clutter his brain with unnecessary details, I wasn’t interested in sports. Besides, it bothers me that athletes get so much praise and adulation for being part of a lucky genetic pool. As opposed to an artist, I motion to Dawn, or someone who studies hard and wins a science competition, or a debate tournament.

Joy shakes her head. I don’t know about that. Candace works really hard. She practises, she trains, she often plays through pain. I admire her work ethic.

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