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As she passes by, Tinker Bell stares daggers at me.
I wave a hand. I don’t join in the other guys’ taunting, but it does feel like I won the faceoff with her.
Or so I think.
CHAPTER 2
LUZ
It figures that Max Cassiano is a jerk. Being dubbed the next Sidney Crosby must have gotten to that huge head of his. Or was the next Sidney Crosby supposed to be his cousin?
Whatever.
Just before stepping off the ice, I pause and turn around. Anyone would think he just won a match with that shit-eating grin on his face. I slice the air before my neck with a hand, a clear declaration of war.
I’m the queen of the ice, not this Tinker Bell crap he keeps yapping about.
Somehow, I’ll find the way to make him fall to his knees before me. I don’t care that he’s poised for the world juniors or the draft. Or that he’s a massive wall of muscle and wildly talented. Or that his ridiculously good-looking face appears on the local news all the time. He will learn my name forward and backward. It will give him nightmares.
But first I need to understand what this travesty is.
I follow the rest of the team out of the arena and back into the locker room. Grumbles sound all around me, and I glean that we have one collective thought.
What the hell?
The head coach stops in the middle of the locker room. I recognize her because she was in my interview when I applied for the scholarship. She’s surrounded by three other women and one guy who must be part of her staff. A pretty big difference to the ten or so dudes who seem to be the men’s team staff.
“I’m Head Coach Elaine Young. Call me Coach Young.” Her voice is clear and void of any feeling. I can’t read her face either. She could be vibrating with excitement on the inside, like I am, or she could be raging, also like I am. “When I speak, you will yes, ma’am me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all say at once, loud and clear.
“Good. Now, take off your gear. We’re going to start with dryland training.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Except me. My big, fat mouth opens instead with “But why?”
Coach Young’s eyes zero in on me as if magnetically pulled by my voice. You could hear a pin drop with how quiet the whole room grows.
I know I’m messing up on my first day, but I’m nothing if not honest. So I take a step forward, puff up my chest with a breath, and more eloquently, ask, “Why do we have to get off the ice, and not them?”
Her eyes flash with thunder.
Hey, very apropos to the team name—the St. Cloud Thunder Strikes.
“Because I say so.” She sweeps sharp eyes across the roster. “If there are no further complaints, I’ll see you at the gym in five minutes.”
“Oh, shit,” I mutter as I do quick mental math. That’s not enough time to remove all my gear, put it in place, change my socks, and put on my sneakers.
I drop my gloves and stick, and right here, in the middle of the locker room, I start stripping at lightning speed. I’m not the only one with the same idea. Among muffled curses and squeals, my future teammates also scramble to divest themselves of all the layers.
The floor becomes a cemetery for jerseys, pads, and equipment. Who the hell knows which one belongs to whom anymore. All that matters is leaping over it to find my sneakers.
I run out of the locker room wearing the wrong socks, carrying the shoes in my hands, and in my underclothes. Somehow, I manage to be the first one in the gym. It’s brand new, and the machines still gleam, but I have no time to admire it. Hopping on one foot, I put on a sneaker and then the next as the rest of the team arrives. One of the other women has been watching the show from the mats.
“I’m Kaylee McDonald, your strength trainer. And for the next two hours, you will yes, ma’am me too.”
With the way her T-shirt hugs her biceps, I should’ve guessed. I dream of having definition like hers.
