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“Don’t get in your head,” I said, echoing her advice. More horns honked and I smacked the wheel. I put on the radio, but Leon had messed with my presets — country again, instead of rock.
You need to see it, said Coach Nelson, loud in my head. Your technique’s all there, but you can’t see it. You’re not visualizing victory. You’re stuck in defeat mode.
I flipped through the stations — news, news, more country. Slapped the radio off and inched my truck forward. Maybe Coach had a point. Even in my dreams lately, I kept on losing. The goal shrank to a pinhole, or the ice turned to slush. The puck grew wings and flew away cawing.
Remember as a kid, playing street hockey? That voice in your head, ‘he shoots, he scores’? Bring that voice back when you’re cooking a meal. When you’re shoveling your driveway. When you’re doing nothing at all. See yourself score that goal, see play for play.
I gripped the wheel, feeling stupid, and tried to see it, but I’d never been much the fanciful type. I didn’t picture myself doing things. I went out and did them.
“He shoots. He scores,” I said aloud. Somebody honked, and I blew out a breath, frustrated. I tried again to see myself skating. To feel it, the tension, the strain on my ankles. The pull in my hips as I dropped to a crouch. I saw a defenseman coming straight at me, head down, stance wide, blocking my way.
He turns, he breaks left, he crashes through that defense line. And he’s got the puck, he shoots — what a goal!
The tips of my ears went hot and I chuckled, embarrassed. I did feel like a kid, and not in a good way. Small, short, and wimpy, not strong and decisive. Still, I pictured the play again and added more detail, a welter of sticks jutting into my path, the scrape of my skates as I nailed a sharp turn. The pop of my knees as I dropped to store power. I saw the rink through the cage of my helmet, the bulk of the goalie, his stick on the ice. I drove straight toward him, controlling the puck, and?—
“Hey, dumbass! Move!” Someone honked and blew past me, flipping me the bird. He cut in front of me, and I realized we were moving. I laid on my own horn and crept up a few inches. In my head, the puck flew off and I tossed my stick. I lunged for the goalie and he lunged for me, and I landed the first punch straight in his padding. The ref blew his whistle. The crowd chanted Fight!
I slumped over the steering wheel, limp, shoulders shaking, laughing like a fool in the middle of traffic. Even in my fantasies, I couldn’t catch a break. What would it take for me to break through for real?
“He gets the puck,” I growled, feeling sillier than ever, but if there was one thing I didn’t do, that was give up. I didn’t care what it took, or how dumb I felt: this year would be my year. This season. This cup.
CHAPTER 2
IZZY
The summer I turned nine was my Pokémon summer.
I got sick with the flu right before my birthday, fever and sniffles, aches, the whole works. Mom had to cancel my big princess party, and I got the game early to make up for my heartbreak. My best friend got it too, and we were both hooked. From June to August, that was our life, trainers and Pokéballs, shinies in the tall grass. We had a whole pact going where we would catch them all. We wouldn’t stop playing till we’d snagged every one.
For two golden months, I knew I’d play forever. I’d never get tired of my Pokémon friends. There’d always be more to do, more to explore. Then a day came along, a few days before school let in, when I reached for my DS and I felt… tired. Like I was bracing myself to tackle some chore. I put it back down again and went to look for my skateboard, and just like that, it was game over. I’d caught my last Pokémon, and I was fine with that.
Twenty years later, squinting into my closet, I felt that same tiredness when I reached for my dress. That same sense of doneness, of why am I here? I pulled out my new dress, slinky and silver, and the thought of squeezing into it made my body feel heavy. The night to come flashed before me like a string of bad snapshots: me at my vanity, doing my makeup. Cramming my feet into pinchy-toed shoes. Drinking and dancing, shouting over the music. Stumbling home late with the start of a headache. Was this, had this ever been my idea of fun?
My phone buzzed on my dresser and I leaned over to grab it. Probably Lola to say she’d be late. Lola was always late. It was kind of her thing. She’d even been late coming into the world, nearly a month late, according to her mother.
Sorry!!! Hate to flake last min but something can camouflage
*camera
*CAME UP!
Stupid autocarrot
Anyway
Hope you’re not mad <3
I tossed my dress on the bed, half-bummed, half-relieved. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hang out with Lola. She was awesome. I loved her. But the thought of the club… It felt kind of over, along with my twenties. Something that had been fun, but now I was finished. I was ready for the next thing, whatever that was. When I was nine, it had been soccer. Now, staring down thirty, I wasn’t so sure. A promotion, maybe — a new chapter at work. Nights at the ballet. Wine. Dinner parties.
No worries, I texted. Tired anyway.
Lola sent back a string of pink kisses, along with a promise to catch me tomorrow for coffee. I flopped down on my bed and kicked off my shoes. They clunked on the carpet and I wiggled my toes. It hit me I had the whole house to myself — Spencer and Leon gone, no boys, just me. I could spread out in the living room. Hog the TV. Eat a whole tub of ice cream. Whatever I wanted.
“A bath,” I sighed, and wriggled with pleasure — I could sneak into Spencer’s room and borrow his hot tub. Let the jets soothe away the stress of my week. How long since I’d done that? Too damn long.
I grabbed my shampoo from my own little bathroom, my face mask and bodywash, my big fluffy robe. Ten minutes later, I was tits-deep in bubbles, spread out like a starfish, blissfully soaking. I’d evicted Spencer’s hockey gear and his laundry basket, and with them the smell of struggle and sweat. The steam caught my mint bodywash and spread it around, filling the air with a refreshing tang. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift.
Next week at work, I would start afresh. We had those new developments coming in, shiny new condos in the heart of downtown. The partners were slammed, so they’d be looking to delegate. If I could get in first with my proposal, show them I was ready to shine on my own…
