Her big reveal is met with a chorus of whistles and hoots of approval.
And he’s at our game tonight, she adds, before I can stuff a hockey sock into her mouth.
I thought he was dating Lana Hillier, Brit, a freshman defender, says.
Keep up. They broke up back in January, Jinx tells her.
Brit squints, as if calculating how someone could fall from Lana, the top of the Monarch dating chain, to me.
He’s not my boyfriend, I protest once more, but it’s useless. My teammates are now discussing how hot Mats is and what he might be like in the sack. I fucking hate my life.
You better sleep with one eye open tonight, I snarl at Becks.
She just laughs. Pfft. You’ve pranked me so much that it’s not even close to even. Besides, there’s nothing you find more motivating than having someone from the Monarch men’s team at our games. It’s a guaranteed-win night.
I can’t deny this, but it happens so rarely.
Our captain will be busting her ass to show off for her boyfriend, Jinx declares.
Yeah, so keep up, guys. I might as well turn this fuckfest to my advantage.
Then Burty walks in, and it’s time to focus on the game. She’s an awesome head coach. She was a tough-as-nails defender in her college days. She gives me a ton of freedom out on the ice, so when she tells me to do something, I follow her directions to a T.
Tonight is my favourite kind of game—tight, close-checking, and played on the edge. Portage are talented and dirty, exactly the kind of team I love to beat.
After two periods, the score is tied, 3–3. I’m going hard every shift and yelling advice and encouragement whenever I’m on the bench.
Go, Jinx. You got this, I urge when she’s slowing her pace. Brit, man on, man on, I warn as she goes back for the puck. During pauses in play, I check on Marjorie, who’s sitting way up high. She’s wearing a purple pantsuit with a white down coat, the Monarch colours. She’s flanked by Barb and Mats. They seem happy up there, but a win would guarantee that Marjorie gets to experience true hockey happiness.
I skate out for my shift. We’re at the next-goal-wins stage of the game, and I want to make damn sure that we score.
It’s a defensive zone draw, and I’m lined up against the big Portage winger who’s been hacking away at me all night. She shoves her shoulder against mine and mutters, You’re going to have a few bruises later, Nelson.
Time for a little trash talk. No fucking kidding. That’s what happens when you have the puck, but I guess you wouldn’t know.
Oh, fuck you. She gives me a dirty slash across the ankle, but my taunt distracts her enough that I’m first to the puck when Gilly scrambles the draw. I pass the puck back to Woolly and move towards the neutral zone. Portage are pressing for the go-ahead goal, their defence pinching deep and their forwards forechecking hard. There’s a scramble beside our net and players collide, and suddenly there’s all this open ice in front of me.
Woolly, I scream, and she sends the puck to me. I’ve got a breakaway and I tear down the ice, completely focused on where to shoot on this Gigantor they have in net. Then there’s the scrape of skates behind me. A desperate player takes out my feet and I’m suddenly lying belly-down on the ice.
A whistle sounds, and I scramble up in time to see the ref pointing towards centre ice.
Sweeeeeeet. A fucking penalty shot! The crowd screams in excitement. This is the shit I live for.
I glide to the bench, where everyone wants to give me advice, but I only listen to Burty, who tells me to shoot top corner, glove side. I skate in a slow circle to where the puck is waiting on the dot. Then I realize—this could be a money goal.
I stop behind the puck, poised and waiting for the ref to whistle me to go. Then I lift my stick and point it right at Marjorie. This one is for you.
Tweet. I go in fast, knowing exactly what I’ll do. I can see the goalie’s eyes through her mask as she tries to anticipate my shot. A slight shoulder fake so she lowers her glove, and then I pounce. My shot sails up and over her shoulder.
Red light. Goal. Fuck yeah.
The roaring crowd is even louder now. I skate to the bench for hand slaps and hugs. Once I’m seated, even the coaches give me shoulder taps.
Becks slings an arm over my shoulder. Clutch is back! You’re such a fucking hot dog. I can’t believe you dedicated that goal to Mats.
Fuck no. That was for Marjorie, I insist. But it turns out my teammates think I’m exactly the kind of sappy girlfriend who would do that. Nobody believes that we’re not even going out. What is Mats going to think when all this gets back to him?
We manage to hang on to the lead. Even though it’s my time to shine, I rush to shower and dress so I can talk to Marjorie. She has a pretty early bedtime and it’s almost 10:00 PM.
