Page 44 of Hockey 101

You broke so many rules on that play. Tripping, roughing, handling the puck, he chides.

I growl in frustration. I don’t know when I’ve hated someone this much. Can’t you let me score just one goal?

Sure. But first you have to admit that hockey is tough, and hockey players are awesome.

Honestly, he’s right. I was wrong about hockey players. Every person I’ve met on the Mustangs is unique. Jack is the nicest, but his teammates are great too. Like animal-loving Mats, who gave me great advice and Jacob. Or the team captain, Vik—or Big Z, as the guys call him—who agreed to be the subject of my second player profile. And the entire women’s team, who have all been so welcoming.

However, I’m not admitting any of this to the jerk who’s been making me feel like a total klutz out here.

You can stay out here until the ice melts before I’ll say something that ridiculous.

You’re so tough, Jack teases. Fine, be like that. Let’s go, then. He skates back towards the bench, and I take this last opportunity to sneak in and score while his back is turned. Just when I swing the stick back for a satisfying whack, the puck disappears.

Jack lifts the puck with the end of his stick, flips it in the air, then catches and pockets it. He cocks his head. Ready to admit our greatness?

Ugh. Fine. Hockey players are jerks personally, but awesome out on the ice, I grit out.

I don’t think that’s exactly what I said, but close enough. C’mon. He skates off to the centre of the rink and I follow. Then we skate towards the goal together.

Sinclair has the puck, he dekes the Portage defenceman, and whoa, did he break his ankle? Coming in, the goalie tries a poke check, but oh, what’s this? A spectacular back pass to Robson…

The puck arrives perfectly on the blade of my hockey stick and I smack it into the net.

Score! A beauty by Andy Robson.

I can’t help it, I’m ridiculously thrilled by his stupid play-by-play and my first goal. I throw my arms in the air and cheer. Next thing I know, Jack has his arms wrapped around me. Even though this is how hockey players celebrate, it feels more personal. Through his jacket, I can feel the firmness of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, and his body against mine. Our eyes meet and then his gaze falls to my lips.

All I need to do is lean forward and close the scant inches between our mouths. But I’m frozen in place, all jangling nerves and tensed muscles.

After a few agonizing seconds, I smile weakly at him, then pull away and skate towards the bench. What is wrong with me? Not only can I not flirt, but I’m not even going for what I want.

That was surprisingly fun, I say in a hoarse voice.

We’ll make a hockey player out of you yet, he replies.

Yeah, now that I know that’s not possible.

You don’t have to play varsity. There’s rec hockey here too. Mixed teams always need women. We start taking off our skates on opposite ends of the bench. When I sneak a peek at him, he’s concentrating on untying his skates with surgical precision. When he looks over, I immediately focus on my skates.

Once we’ve got our shoes back on, Jack goes to return the sticks and I follow him. We’re heading towards the back exit when we hear the sound of a door opening, then a man’s voice.

Jack freezes and grabs my arm.

Shit. We’re not actually supposed to be here.

Now it’s all coming together. The brick holding the door open and not turning on the lights—all because Jack was breaking the rules. And I’m a total rule follower.

Seriously? Well, I guess we’re in for a stern talking-to, I say.

His hazel eyes widen. Shit. There are a whole bunch of rules here. I haven’t read them all, but I know I’m not supposed to practice extra. I could get suspended. We need to hide, now.

He yanks me through the nearest door, which turns out to be a closet that’s already full of janitorial supplies. There’s barely any room for us to fit. I pull the door shut and press my ear against it. I can hear a man’s angry voice.

It’s your mistake, but I’m the one who has to come all the way back to the rink. You owe me. There’s a pause, so I figure he’s on the phone. The voice is familiar, and I run through the possibilities. Too old to be any of the players.

I think that’s Coach Greene, I whisper. The assistant coach sent me into a room full of half-naked players on purpose, so he’s not my favourite person.

When Jack doesn’t respond, I manage to turn around. Instead of his usual grin, he’s staring blankly ahead and mouth-breathing.

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