Page 13 of Stick It
She looks at me, her expression unreadable. “I do whatever I have to do to be the best.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. Like she feels she has to defend herself. Justify her actions.
I nod. I mean, I get it. We all watch game footage. Maybe not every night, but the guys and I frequently sit down to review tapes when the season gets underway. Truth be told, if I were joining a new team, I’d be doing the same thing she is.
Leaning back in the seat, I spread my legs, posture relaxed, as I shift my focus to the television. “Last season, huh?”
She pauses momentarily, and I feel her eyes on me before she presses play, relaxing—although not as much as before—into the sofa.
The footage resumes, the game back in play. Every so often, she pauses it, pointing out moves or plays.
“See here?” Ethan has just sped down the ice, weaving past two defensemen like they don’t exist. Finn trails a few paces behind, perfectly positioned for the pass that never comes. Instead, Ethan cuts too close to the net and takes a desperate shot, which the goalie deflects with ease.
Dylan’s finger is pointed at the screen. “Ethan’s great on the rush, but he hesitates for just a second too long before passing. It gives the defense time to adjust. Finn should have had that puck, and the team would have been up early in the game.”
Not waiting for any comment or retort from me, she presses play on the remote, and the game continues. Nothing in particular stands out until the puck ricochets off the boards, skidding toward where Reed is camped out on the blue line, stick raised for a slap shot. However, he hesitates, his eyes fixed on a defender instead of the puck. By the time he adjusts, it’s too late, and the opposing team clears it.
Pausing, Dylan rewinds, replaying Reed’s hesitation in slowmotion. I can’t look away as she stares captivated at the screen, her head tilted and lips slightly parted, drinking in everything that’s happening. “Kyle’s got a strong shot, but he doesn’t always read the ice well enough to know where the puck will end up,” she accurately deduces, talking mostly to herself rather than me, before absently pressing play again.
While the game unfolds, I watch her, not the TV. She’s sharp. Scary sharp. It’s not just that she sees everything; it’s that she knows how to fix it. Knows how to exploit every weakness like she’s playing chess while everyone else is still figuring out checkers. She’s breaking down our game with the precision of someone who’s lived and breathed hockey her entire life.
And suddenly, I know. She’s going to make the roster.
There’s no way Coach is benching her. She’s too good. Too valuable.
I glance back at the screen before she can catch me staring, but my thoughts are spinning. She might be good—great—but she’s still a girl. She doesn’t have the strength to take a hit from someone like Reed, let alone Ethan. Or me. And if the other teams catch wind that we’ve got a girl on the ice? They’ll go after her. They’ll break her.
That’s if Reed or the other guys don’t get to her first. The way they talked tonight—it wasn’t just locker room bravado. It was a warning. Unease settles in my stomach as I watch her dissect another play. Because no matter how good she is, no matter how sharp her instincts are, I can already see the cracks forming.
This team isn’t ready for her, and if Coach puts her on the roster, it won’t just be the other teams trying to tear her apart—it’ll be us.
5
DYLAN
I pushopen the gym door and stride inside without hesitation, knowing Griffin Price—the Steelhawks’ goalie—will already be in the weights area, midway through his workout. It might be 5 a.m., but while every other player is grabbing an extra hour of sleep before a brutal practice session, Griffin and I are the only ones glutton enough for punishment to squeeze in a workout beforehand.
The first day I walked in here and saw him, I nearly turned around and left. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be up at this hour, and I definitely wasn’t thrilled about being alone in the same room as one of the guys from the team.
However, he barely spared me a glance as I stood frozen in the doorway in indecision, and after a momentary debate, I marched over to the treadmill. I knew to be wary, but no way was I letting this team keep me out of the weights room.
I deliberately left my earbuds out, not trusting that he wouldn’t ambush me when I was distracted with my workout, but from the corner of my eye, I’d watched while he finished his sets in the weights area before walking out. All without even seeming to realize I was there.
Since then, he’s ignored me, and I’ve ignored him, and it’s been…fantastic, really. It sounds like I’m insane, to consider being left alone is as good as it gets, but for me, it’s the truth. I couldn’t even set foot in the gym at Northern Summit without being hassled and jeered. When that didn’t put me off, the guys had escalated, smearing peanut butter over the weights bar, messing with the machines, and even removing all the weight plates from the room. Once, they actually managed to rig the treadmill so it wouldn’t stop when I pressed the button. And when I tried to slow it down, it sped up until I was going so fast I thought I would pass out.
They played it all off as normal hazing, of course. But I knew. I could see it in their eyes. They didn’t want me there, and they were willing to do whatever it took to get me to leave.
Unfortunately, they eventually succeeded.
And not in a way I ever thought they would.
Shaking my head to dispel those thoughts, I focus on my workout, first jumping onto the treadmill. I start with a warm-up jog to loosen my muscles and get the blood pumping before amping up the pace until I’m breathing hard and sweat sticks to my black sports bra.
I might be comfortable wearing my earbuds now, but I keep one eye on Griffin as he goes through his rounds of squats before moving on to bench presses.
He’s shirtless, wearing only loose basketball shorts that hug his trim waist before falling to his knees. With the angle of the weights bench, I have the perfect view of his hard, sculpted chest, the straining of his biceps as he pushes his arms straight into the air. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him, the ridges of every muscle plain to see and begging to be licked.
It doesn’t help that, judging by the amount of weight he’s lifting, he could easily bench-pressme.There’s just something sohotabout a guy who could effortlessly lift you over hishead.
On day three of this peaceful arrangement of ours, I noticed he had his nipples pierced, a loop hanging from each of the taut nubs.
