Page 15 of Stick It
“So you’re the girl who thinks she can hack it with the boys.”
Ah, so it’s one of those conversations. What fun.
My gaze flicks from his below-average-looking face to the two equally large and intimidating buddies at his back, both staring at me with curious skepticism. I don’t recognize any of their faces, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t players on the team. Or they could play a different sport at BSU. Equally, they couldjust be your regular run-of-the-mill, misogynistic douchebags.
Whoever they are, they’ve picked the wrong girl to mess with.
Even though I’m five-foot-eight and taller than most women, since I’m typically surrounded by hockey players, I’m often the shortest person in the room. So their height doesn’t bother me. What does is the fact that they are crowding me, standing while I sit.
Snatching my backpack off the table, my chair scrapes against the floor as I stand. I still have to look up into their faces, but that’s nothing new.
“Nope,” I say casually.
In mirror symmetry to one another, all three of their brows flatten, and I can see the wheels rotating furiously in their empty heads.Do we have the right girl?Are the rumors false? I wonder what’s for lunch in the cafeteria.
Putting them out of their misery, I smile slyly. “IknowI can hack it with the boys.”
Before their minds can finish spinning and they can come up with some stupid retort that will bounce off my now hardened-in-steel-and-flames exterior, I shove through them and down the steps of the lecture theatre.
“There are girls’ and boys’ teams for a reason!” one of them yells after me.
Ignoring them, I shove through the doors, hearing them clang shut behind me as I storm off. They might be right, but the world of sports is changing. It’s not as black and white as it once was. The number of female coaches on professional male sporting teams has increased exponentially over the last few years, with last season showingfifteenfull-time female coaches on various NFL teams.
It’s not just the coaching and support staff, either. Fabiolada Silva is an inline skating savant who regularly competes against men—and kicks their ass. And despite how these small-minded college kids get on, I amnotthe first woman to join a male sports team. Throughout history, women have proven they can play at the same level as men. Hell, assuming I get a spot, I wouldn’t even be the first woman to play in the NHL. That supreme achievement goes to Manon Rhéaume who was the goaltender for Tampa Bay Lightning in 1992–1993. She might have only played in exhibition games, but she proved women have just as much of a place in pro-sports leagues as men.
And she’s not the only one.
Charlotte Cagigos is a French ice hockey player who plays on an otherwise all-male Division One team.
All over the world, women are stepping into previously male-dominated roles and sports and proving we are just as capable as they are.
Sure, when it comes to hockey, both those women were goalies—a position that offered them the most safety against larger, more aggressive players, but I’ve never been one to follow in someone else’s footsteps. I want to blaze my own path. Plus, goaltending wasnotfor me. I hated being stuck near the net and missing out on all the action at the opposite end of the ice.
After my run-in with the intimidating trio, I feel eyes on me more prevalently for the remainder of the day, and Iknowthe hushed whispers are about me.
Thewomanon themen’shockey team.
The girl who dares defy tradition.
The bitch who’s going to prove to them we’re entering an entirely different world where women can kick ass just as hardas men.
Now that classes have started, we’re limited to one training session a day. However, I’ve never been a fan of justonedaily practice. Once a day is for those who aren’t committed. For those who are in this game for the status, the attention, the girls.
Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve always trained twice a day—plus a cardio and weights session. Sunday is the only day where I’ll maybe—maybe—only get on the ice once.
So, after a grueling day of class introductions and being gawked at, I head to the arena.
The rink is cold, and the chill seeps through my hoodie as I enter the arena. The ice is only half lit up, the lights casting long shadows across the boards and giving the place an almost eerie stillness.
While I love seeing the stands packed, breathing in the heady buzz of psyched fans as they scream and cheer, listening to the shudder of bodies being slammed against the boards, skates slicing over ice, and the puck whizzing down the rink, I think I love this stillness more.
Some of my fondest memories are in this stillness.
Of watching my dad skate with the kind of ease that made it look effortless.
Him teaching me, one wobbling step at a time.
Before I can get too caught up in traveling down memory lane, I move toward the edge of the rink. That’s when I realize I’m not alone. There’s already someone out there.
