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My lungs are burning.
My legs feel like Jell-O.
Sweat is dripping in my eyes.
And I ache, but I know if I want to go to Florida with my friends, I’m going to have to show my dad that I can take off for four days without any worries.
“Again,” he yells from the little stool he sits on.
His hazel eyes are trained on me as I suck in deep breaths. His brown hair is hidden under his green Baylor University hat that he’s had since I was born. He wore it the day I was born and always told me that’s why he decided to name me Baylor. That’s also the day my mom decided she didn’t want to be a mom and left. For some reason, that dumb hat of his always reminds me that she left me. I know it shouldn’t—it should remind me of the prestigious school I am named after, but it never does.
It always reminds me that my mom didn’t want me.
Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I shake away the thought as I suck in another deep breath before letting it out in a whoosh. My stick rests loosely in my hand as the puck taunts me from where it lays on the ice. It wants me to give it no mercy, and I don’t intend to. Moving it back and forth quickly with the blade of my stick, I dig into the ice and I’m off from the blue line. Sailing across the ice with ease, I move the puck through the hurdles as if they aren’t even there to give me a challenge, and really, they aren’t. Nothing is. I was born to do this. To make my daddy proud.
When I get through the last hurdle, I spin around, taking the puck with me before moving it back to my skate, hitting it back up to my blade before I shift on my back leg to shoot. Taking in the goal, I see that he’s blocked off a lot of the goal, only leaving me three spots at which to shoot. Left top shelf, bottom right-hand side, and five-hole. Thinking on my feet, I adjust my shoulders as my stick comes down quickly, cracking against the puck. All my strength and hope that I impress him are the driving forces behind my shot before it rockets into the goal. Top shelf. My favorite place to shoot.
I want to throw my hands up, cheer for the flawless shot I just achieved, but my dad doesn’t like that. He believes in celebrating inside, not to showboat. So instead, I rest my stick up against my shoulders as I skate toward him, looking at him for any sign that he is proud of me. He doesn’t give it to me, and slowly I doubt that I’ll be able to go to Clearwater Beach with my friends.
We want to go for one last hurrah before we start back at school. They’ve been begging me to ask him, but I’ve been too scared to. During the summer, I train and I train hard. I’ve been on skates since I was a baby. My dad jokes that I skated before I walked, and since no one can object to that, I’ve always believed him. There isn’t a day that passes that he doesn’t tell me I’m going places. And while it’s a whole lot of pressure, I believe him.
Because I’m the only female hockey player to play on a male college team in the United States.
I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I can hold my own, and I’m damn awesome. It’s been said that I am better than most of the boys, and because of that, my dad fought for me to be on a team where I would be challenged. Since he coaches, it only made sense, despite the hatred that goes along with it. A lot of people doubt me, and the guys on the team tend to be dicks, but once I get on that ice, they soon shut up. Jealously rings loudly, but I ignore it. I have to. Because no matter what, I’m a force to be reckoned with, and no one can touch my skill level.
My career thus far speaks for itself.
I’ve played on the Junior Olympics team since I was six, which is unreal, since you have to be asked to play for the team, and to be asked to play at six is huge. I’ve also been named MVP of the USA team every year since I was six. I’ve scored over five thousand times. My time on the ice exceeds even that of seasoned players. I was playing on an advanced teen level when I was eleven. Soon I was so good that my dad had to switch me to play on a boys’ travel team because I was murdering in the female league, and he wanted me to get better. Every team I play for, I excel on, and I never ever give up. I work my ass off because I love being the best. Because of that, my father and my agent feel I have a one-way ticket into the NHL.
It’s a long shot, but I will make it.
I will be the first woman in the NHL.
I will make my daddy proud.
When his hazel eyes meet mine, he nods. “Good.”
“Good?” I scoff before pointing to the course he’s made me. “I killed that.”
He nods, a grin pulling at his lips. “You didn’t put all the force in your shot. I know you can hit it harder.”
“I wanted accuracy, though. I wanted top shelf. I know I can shoot harder, and I would have if I had no opening, just for the mere hope that it would make its way in. But for this exercise, I felt I needed to have accuracy.”
He nods again, and while he holds my gaze, my heart is pounding in my chest. I know I am right, but does he think so? “Yeah, I know. I’m just busting your chops. Good work, Bay.”
I smile at my nickname. No one is allowed to call me that but him. People have tried and I’ve shut them down. It means more when it comes from him because he only calls me that when he is really proud. Elated, I unbuckle my cage and push it up so I can see him a bit better. “Thanks, Dad.”
He sends me a grin before standing up and stretching his arms above his head. I rock back and forth in my skates, the silence stretching between us as I figure out how I’m gonna ask. With being the best, I don’t have much downtime. My dad is making a winner, as he says. I have to train, and I have to train a lot to be able to exceed the talents of the guys that I go against. I have to have a quick shot, I have to be fast, and most of all, I have to be able to take the hits that come my way. And I can do all that, but man, I need a few days off.
Just a few.
Turning his back to me, he reaches for his clipboard and his phone and then asks, “When are you gonna ask me about Florida?”
I look up quickly and he sends me a grin before reaching for his stool. Stunned, I suck in a deep breath. “You know about that?”
He scoffs as he looks over his shoulder at me. “Baylor, I know all.”
This time I’m the one scoffing at him. “Please.”
