Page 30 of Hockey 101

My dyslexia manifests… he mimics my voice sarcastically, …in my inability to write anything half-decent. I can’t spell and my grammar sucks.

Thus his curt emails. You don’t seem to have any trouble telling me off with perfect grammar.

Duh. That’s because we’re talking. So, can you fuck off now, so I can get to work? He motions into the video room where Alex has the game frozen on the screen. He’s definitely eavesdropping.

Could you dictate the stories to me? Either on the phone, or via an app? I ask.

At least he doesn’t reject this solution immediately. I watch over his shoulder as Alex replays Jack’s goal, and I can see his delighted celebration over and over. Finally, Jacob asks gruffly, Why would you go to all that trouble for me?

It’s not that much trouble. I’d have to edit your story anyway, and I’m a fast typist. And I’m doing it because you’d be a fresh voice who would make our hockey coverage more insightful.

You’re a real pain in the ass, you know? But he gives me his first smile. Well, the corners of his mouth lift a little anyway. I’m counting it.

Okay, we can give it a try. But if it doesn’t work out, you’ll have to accept my decision.

I clap my hands. Yes! It will work out.

At minimum it will be much better than anything I could write. Bryce has been leading off the editorial meetings with a list of sports coverage problems, and it’s really getting stale. Criticizing me seems to be his new hobby, and I hate it.

One more thing. You have to put both our names on the stories, Jacob says.

All stories get edited. Why not take the glory? I ask.

Yeah, well, I get special accommodations when I write exams. How would I explain to my TAs that I’m suddenly the star sports reporter for the Messenger?

I laugh merrily. I’m elated at getting Jacob on board. He’s the first step in my plan for an improved sports section. We decide that he’ll start with tomorrow night’s game in Duluth and make all the arrangements.

Looking forward to working with you, I say.

Of course you are. Jacob’s surly overconfidence is restored. But I suspect he’s pleased too.

As I’m making my way down the hallway, I can hear grunts and curses from the weight and exercise room. Although I may be the only woman on campus to say this, I’ve already seen enough undressed hockey players for a lifetime, so I speed up as I pass the door.

Andy! Hey, Andy, a cheery voice booms.

I sigh and walk backwards until I can see inside. Jack is beckoning enthusiastically. How come the person who played an entire hockey game has more energy than the person who sat in the stands and ate stale popcorn?

I’m only two inches into the room when I’m hit by the stench. The dressing room was bad, but sweaty hockey players in an even smaller space? Yikes. I breathe through my mouth and weave my way through the various machines. To my surprise, a few guys nod at me. Maybe my first story has been forgiven?

Jack’s perched on a stationary bike. He’s wearing a Monarch Hockey T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. His long, tanned legs are pedalling furiously. The damp fabric of his shirt clings to his broad chest. His glistening face strains with the physical effort. Is this what his face looks like during sex? My breath catches and I flush pink—where did that thought come from?

What are you doing here? he asks with his usual enthusiasm. Even though I said we were all even, he seems to believe he still owes me help. He’s been messaging me with all kinds of hockey info: sites to check out, videos to watch, random bits of team gossip.

I came to see Jacob about doing the game stories, I say.

The smile fades from his face. Oh. So you won’t be covering us anymore? He must be the only person in the entire college who wants me to continue doing this.

I’ll still attend some games, I offer. It must be Jack’s hangdog expression that causes this promise to come out of my mouth. I act out of character whenever he’s around.

Oh, that’s great. Did you see my goal tonight?

I’m distracted by a bead of sweat travelling over the unshaven bristle on his chin, then I snap to attention. Oh, of course. Congratulations, I say.

He gives me a cocky grin. It was the game winner.

Really? How does that work?

My goal was the third one, so if the game ended and the score was 3-2, we still would have won. The fourth goal is like a bonus. Jack is endlessly patient with my lack of hockey knowledge.

---