Page 9 of Slapshot
“It’s a moonstone. For new beginnings and good fortune.” He sets it on the desk. “We told the guys this morning. Everyone is really happy to have you here. Well, I’ll let you get familiar with everything and I’ll check in later. Northeastern should be arriving in about two hours. Let’s set up their locker room first. I’ll be around if you have any questions.”
Unraveling the red scarf from my neck, I laugh as I set it on the desk. Red scarf equals red aura, I guess. He’s certainly a contrast to the gruff head coach. I wonder what color is Coach Keller’s aura?
I power on the tablet and find the files Coach Garfunkle mentioned. It’s extensive. Player profiles, step-by-step instructions for setting up the locker rooms and packing for away games. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach at the thought of traveling with the team. It’s one thing to give up a few hours of my day but being trapped with a horde of hockey players on a bus or in a hotel somewhere isn’t something I thought through. If I had, I wouldn’t be here now.
I push that away to deal with later and using the checklist for game day to-dos, I go through the motions finding gear and reorganizing the stick wall.
Occasionally I notice someone standing in the doorway and turn to find one of the players walking by at a snail’s pace. At least six different guys creep by to scope me out. They don’t speak. No one introduces themselves, or welcomes me to the team, asks for help. I’m not sure they’re as happy to have me as Coach Garfunkle let on.
I expected to be mauled and questioned as soon as they realized I was here. I once had a guy ask me to a middle school dance just so he could meet my dad. The first of many times boys have feigned interest in me to get to my dad. Maybe if they don’t speak to me, this won’t be so bad.
Once the guys go out for their skate, I finally relax. I fight with the sewing machine making repairs to uniforms, Coach Garfunkle drops back in and shows me how to work the skate sharpening machine, and before I know it, I’m folding towels and wiping down benches in the away team’s locker room.
It’s pretty mindless work, really. I’m taking a last glance around when Coach Garfunkle appears with guys from Northeastern University. Bags on shoulders, most of them wear headphones or have them resting around their necks.
“All ready?” Coach Garfunkle asks with an easy smile.
I nod and move out of the center of the room. The guys filter in while Coach Garfunkle introduces me to our opponent’s equipment manager.
“This is Kaitlyn. She has you guys covered, whatever you need.” Our assistant coach starts out of the locker room. I don’t know why he has so much faith in me, but I appreciate that he doesn’t hover trying to mansplain things to me.
“You’re new.” Northeastern’s manager drops a bag onto the floor.
“That’s right.”
“Which guy do you belong to?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which guy on the team are you dating?” When I don’t immediately answer, he adds, “Come on, hot chick like you. Why else would you sign up for this job? Unless you’re into one of them and he doesn’t know it. Maybe all of them.” He shrugs as if he didn’t just offend me on so many levels I can’t wrap my brain around his arrogance.
He doesn’t know who I am, but if he did, he’d be mortified. In some ways, I prefer his assholery. At least it’s honest.
“I’m not dating any of them, nor do I want to,” I say and give him my best professional smile laced with annoyance and don’t fuck with me. I’ve worked hard on this look, but this guy just chuckles.
“Yeah, sure, okay. Do you want to give me your number and I can text you if we need anything?”
I hesitate. I don’t know if that’s a normal request or not. Seems reasonable, but I don’t really want this prick to have my number. “I’ll check in after the first period. Good luck.”
Back in our locker room, the guys are getting dressed, so I prep the bench. Fans are starting to trickle into the arena, and I’m as nervous as if I were about to take the ice.
Northeastern skates out first, but Moo U is close behind. Coach Keller adjusts his tie as he steps onto the bench. I glance down at the green polo shirt that is my uniform. It’s boxy and unflattering and faintly smells like body odor.
“Did you have any trouble today?” he asks.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“If the boys haven’t complained by now, then I think you’re safe.” His eyes scan the area. “Looks good.”
I stand back and watch the team. A funny feeling comes over me as my senses are accosted with memories. I swear the air tastes different when you’re standing near the ice. The smell of the snack bar, the sound of skates gliding over the ice, and the way the overhead lights make the ice shine.
Some of the earliest pictures of me are on the ice. I guess that’s why even though I’ve largely avoided it for the past eight years, my breathing evens out and I feel a sense of peace when the cool air touches my skin and slips into my lungs.
I might hate it, but it’s the closest thing to a real home I’ve ever known. Memories of going to games with my dad, him taking me to practice or to just goof around together… I shake those memories back and focus on the present.
Moo U hockey is a big deal. Not only to hockey fans, but to the entire student body. Weekends are for hockey or frat parties. You can go to one or both, but if you go to neither, people look at you confused like what else could you possibly be doing?
Once the game starts, I don’t have any more time to second-guess the job or bemoan my hatred for hockey. At first, I’m too caught up in the job, dreading the moment someone needs me to do something—refilling water bottles after each use, trying to appear busy.
