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He jams his laptop back in its case and gives us a droll stare. “You two are the only student athletes in this class. I thought it would be easier for everybody to be paired with people at their level, don’t you think?”
My jaw drops. So does Tinker Bell’s.
“Thought so. See you next class.” With that, he walks out of the classroom with all the dignity of someone who thinks he’s in the right.
Tinker Bell splutters and turns around to face me, pointing at the door like words fail her. Finally, she lets out a very eloquent “what the hell?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, that just happened.”
“Did we just get discriminated against?”
“That’s… what it feels like.”
She shoves my shoulder weakly. “And you didn’t help my case, you jerk.”
“Because I didn’t want to.” I put my hands in my jean pockets. “Here’s an idea, Tinker Bell. Why don’t you redirect all that hostility toward these people who think the two of us have a single brain cell combined?”
“Might be easier to just report them.” Her lips pinch.
“Than to work with me?” I put a hand on my chest. “Whew, and here I thought you stopped hating me when you jumped me.”
“Shh!” She looks around, but her shoulders relax when she finds the room is empty. “This is why I can’t possibly work with you, you annoying, arrogant little?—”
I cut her off before her rant can get more colorful. “Well, you’re stuck with me, Tinker Bell.”
“Ugh.”
My cheek twitches. This is already my favorite class of the semester.
CHAPTER 6
LUZ
Today is our first game of the preseason. One of the girls paces up and down the length of the locker room, still in her skivvies. There’s another one in a corner who is praying the rosary, and in the quiet of my mind, I join the prayers. Because I, too, am freaking out.
I sit on my bench, mostly dressed. One of my knees bounces aggressively. If it would stop, I’d be able to put on my wool socks. I run the palms of my hands up and down my lap.
“Mija, relax,” I mutter to myself.
It’s not like it’s my first game ever. And it’s absolutely not like I’m afraid of losing or getting hurt. Both things have happened plenty of times, some more catastrophic than others. So what gives? Why am I so nervous?
Beside me, JT takes deep breaths like a pregnant woman. “I don’t know why I can’t just calm the hell down.”
“Me neither.” I shake my head. And again. “Why does it feel so do or die?”
Chelsea’s putting her auburn hair in a ponytail as she says, “Probably because it is?”
JT and I look at her like she’s suddenly talking about quantum physics.
“Think about it.” She finishes her hair and sits back down on her bench, on my other side. “If we do a bad job, people are going to hate us even more than they already do.”
And they hate us, aight. All week and in every one of my classes, I’ve heard people talking smack about the hockey players. They’re rowdy, think they’re hot shit, take up too much space, sweat too much, and generally don’t seem to have a single coherent thought in their skulls. Obviously, they’re talking about the Bolts. The problem is that the blanket statements are about all hockey players.
Until now, I haven’t had the occasion to reveal to my classmates that I belong to that group. I guess they’re not aware that there’s also a female team. Or simply put, the Strikes are nothing like the Bolts.
But after tonight’s game, there will be no hiding. For us, it’s a home game. Which means that anyone who’s bored on a Friday night can come watch. Our faces will show up on the screen above the ice while we’re being introduced.
Plus, the women’s team having a home game to break the ice—while the men’s game is away—is a big cause for celebration. I heard Coach Young mention that there will be some pictures taken to commemorate the occasion.
