Page 18 of Slapshot
Our fiery equipment manager didn’t give me so much as a second glance yesterday when I saw her at the rink. And, while I gave her third, fourth, and fifth glances, I didn’t go out of my way to talk to her again. I have to keep my focus on hockey and get off that fourth line. I’d also like to avoid beer baths. I’m never living that down.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I gotta go. See you guys at practice.”
“Hey,” I answer after I drop off my tray.
“Lex!” My dad’s boisterous voice makes me smile.
“What’s up, old man?”
“Just checking in.” I can hear the noise of the tire shop in the background. “Barely heard from you since school started.”
“Sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Congrats on the game last weekend.”
“You watched?” My dad is not exactly a hockey fan.
“Your brother did. He gave me the highlights. I was working late.” No surprise there. I get my work ethic from my dad.
“Well, the team played well. We got another win. I had an issue with my skates and didn’t play much.” The white lie feels like acid on my lips. My family doesn’t care if I play every second or none, but it’s for precisely that reason that I want them to see me succeed.
Someone calls for my dad and he speaks away from the phone barking orders. “Sorry about that,” he says to me. “Your brother is on a test drive and our new guy was a no-show.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you called. How’s everything there?”
“Busy, as always. Oh, before I forget, I deposited a little money into your bank account. It’s not much, but maybe you can buy a decent coat. I saw on the weather channel there was a chance of snow there this weekend.”
“I’ll be fine. The cold doesn’t bother me.”
“Vermont cold is different. I did a run out there once when I was driving trucks. Broke down on the side of the road. Bitter cold.”
“I’ll wear a sweatshirt or borrow one of Tate’s many flannels.”
His laughter fills my ear. “When you get home next spring, it’s going to take you all summer to thaw out.”
With it being so far away and hockey running through the holiday breaks, I won’t be able to go home again until the end of freshman year. Weird to think how long I’ll go without seeing him.
He speaks away from the phone again telling someone he’ll be right there.
“These yahoos can’t manage five minutes without me,” he grumbles. I think he secretly likes being indispensable. “I have to go. I’ll call next week.”
* * *
When I get to practice, the guys are smiling and laughing, gathered around together.
“It smells like flowers or… a tropical island.” Jonah holds the collar of his jersey up to his nose and inhales.
“I don’t like it.” Patrick says. “It smells girly. I’m going to be distracted all practice.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, perplexed as the guys are all sniffing their jerseys.
“Check out your jersey. They’re clean. Like smelly clean,” Tate instructs.
I grab my jersey hanging in my stall and bring it up to my nose and then cough. “Are you fucking with me? This is awful. Did she even wash them?”
When I drop my jersey away from my face, I actually can smell a lingering floral scent—but it’s definitely not coming from my jersey. Patrick steps closer and I can really smell it. It smells divine. Like laundry heaven.
I lean in to sniff him. “Clean smells girly?”
