Page 17 of Stick It
I’m sittingin the cafeteria on Wednesday morning, enjoying a quiet breakfast after a particularly grueling practice. I poke at my scrambled eggs, tuning out the chatter of students around me, the clattering of plates, and scraping of cutlery as I replay the fiasco.
It was a simple drill. Passing under pressure, keeping the puck moving in tight quarters. One-touch passes. Quick hands; clean execution. Kyle and I were paired up, supposed to work together. It’s not the first time I’ve been paired with other players, or even with Kyle.
But today…I sent him a pass, tape to tape, but instead of taking it cleanly, the puck ricocheted off his stick and skittered across the ice. And because Kyle will look for any excuse to make me look bad, he didn’t chase after it. Instead, he rounded on me, his voice cutting through the rink like a slap.
“Jesus, Dylan. What did the puck ever do to you? You’re supposed topassit, not attempt to take me out with it.”
Before I could tell him I didn’t hit itthathard, he was away on a tangent.
“Thank God your accuracy is shit. You could have donesome serious damage if that had hit me. What if you’d clocked me in the face, huh?” Shaking his head, he’d tacked on, “You seriously need to work on your sloppy passes.”
Sloppy.
He calledmypasses sloppy. Even now, I squeeze my fork tighter, wishing I could jam the utensil into Kyle’s throat. In my head, I’ve played that pass a hundred times since this morning. It was clean. The puck was right on target—and no, it wasn’t goingtoo fast.Kyle just couldn’t handle it.
Loosening my grip and focusing on the pile of food in front of me, my fork scrapes across the plate, the sound sharp and grating. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it—loud, pointed, like he wanted everyone in the rink to hear. Like he wanted to make sure I knew my place. And it worked, didn’t it? Every guy on the ice stopped what they were doing to look at me like I’d done something wrong.
I chew mechanically on my toast, appetite long gone as I silently fume. I can still feel the weight of their stares, the silent judgment. Like Kyle’s words were a confirmation of every single doubt they had about me.
The idea of the drill might have been to build chemistry, to get used to working with a teammate under game-like conditions, but all it did was prove what I already knew—that I’m not welcome in the Steelhawks’ arena.
Not in their locker room.
Not on their team.
And definitely not on their ice.
I’m still stewing over the fact that Kyle went on and on until Ethan came over and dragged him away, cheeks flaming just remembering the look Bea—Coach—gave me as I skated off the ice, when the sound of someone clearing their throat drags me back into the here and now.
I blink into the present, finding three girls standingover me. What is it with this school and everyone walking around in threes and towering over me? Each of them is holding a tray containing food, and for a second, I think they’re about to ask if they can sit with me. I’ve been eating alone all week—not that I mind. I’m plenty used to it.
But, of course, they aren’t here to join me. That becomes apparent as I take in the mirroring sneers on each of their faces.
“You think you’re better than us?” the one in the middle snarks. Her hair is a perfectly straight bleach-bottle blonde, falling halfway down her back. She’s wearing a tight, white, short-sleeved sweater that only enhances the double-D rack she’s got going for her. A sliver of creamy skin is visible above the waistband of her baby pink miniskirt, her long legs accentuated by the six-inch heels she’s wearing.
Seriously, who wears six-inch heels to class? You’re just asking for a broken ankle.
Her friends are similarly dressed—for fashion or attention, I don’t know which. Certainly not for comfort or academics. Since I have no ideawhoshe or her friends are, I keep my lips tightly sealed.
Twirling a lock of that sunshine blonde hair around her perfectly manicured finger, she continues, “What sort of person goes to such lengths just to get close tothem?”I still have no clue what she’s rambling on about. “If you’re not pretty enough to be a puck bunny—which, honey, you’re not—then accept your calling in life.”
A…what now?
Her minions titter, like her insult is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“Don’t resort to such desperate lengths as to try and get on the sameteamas them.”
Ah, of course.I should have known this had to do with a woman being on the all-boys team—previouslyall-boys team.
It takes a moment for her words to penetrate, and when they do, I can’t help but laugh. It’s a sharp, loud noise that draws the attention of nearby tables, including the one where most of the team is currently situated. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t look away from the girl in front of me.
Smugness bleeds into my expression as I curl one side of my lips in a smirk. “Jealous?”
Lips parted, an undignified scoff escapes her. “Of you?” She makes a point to lower her gaze over my body. I’m wearing sweats and a loose-fitted T-shirt. So no, I don’t look anything close to as good as she does, but if she’d gotten up at 5 a.m., ran, and done weights before a two-hour session on the ice, she wouldn’t be walking around in that getup either. “Never.”
“Then why are you interrupting my breakfast?” My brow furrows in confusion as I make a point of fixing scrambled eggs on top of my toast and taking a massive bite.
With her tray clutched in her hands, she leans in until we’re nose to nose. I can smell the sickly-sweet odor of her perfume. It’s…gag-worthy.
