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“You here to stretch?” he asked and cocked his head, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. It was startling how much he looked like Drew. With his classic Russian looks—blond hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw—he looked more like my mother than I did. While Drew got our mother’s Russian genes, I got my father’s brown eyes and had to bleach my hair to get it the platinum shade of blonde it was now.
“I just finished. I’m heading to the bikes.” I jutted my thumb at the row of them. He nodded, a pleasant smile on his face, and said nothing. I raised my eyebrows and moved to step around him.
“Do not worry about game. I will go stretch and be ready to take over when you give up.”There it is.I almost sighed in relief. Assholes, I knew how to deal with. Nice guys, not so much.
Lukin’s smile turned poisonous. I shot him a sugar-sweet grin in return. I liked that he saw me as a threat. He should. I walked away without another word.
“Pizda,” he spat at my back in Russian.Pussy.
“Nu, ty to, chto ty yesh’,” I returned, making sure my pronunciation was perfect, and didn’t look back.Well, you are what you eat.
I wished I could have seen his reaction, but as I got onto a bike, my neighbor, Erik Berg, a veteran defenseman, snorted in amusement, obviously having understood us. Lukin stalked out thegym door.
It seemed Lukin was pure-blooded Russian, homophobic and sexist—the winning combination. And the top reasons that I had never visited Russia.
My mother had always wanted to take Drew and me to show us where she was born, but by the time we got around to going, Drew and I had both come out of the closet and Russia was not safe for us any longer.
Thankfully, Mom didn’t have the same hang-upsas Lukin.
I replaced my earbuds and pumped up P!nk, starting my bike and shaking off the negativity. It wouldn’t faze me.Not today.
“Okay, boys, settle down,” Coach called the team to attention. The rap music was quickly shut off, and the guys quieted. I caught the tennis balls I was juggling and tuckedthem away.
We had just come off the ice from our warm-up and were sitting in the locker room, getting pumped up for the game. I struggled to keep myself under control and not let my excitement overtake me. The tennis balls helped me focus a little and ignore any distractions, but I wanted to skip all this bullshit and just get onto the ice.
I took some measured breaths. We had a few more minutes before the game started.
Everyone sat at their designated lockers. The once spacious room was much more cramped when filled with a couple dozen guys, fully decked out in hockey gear. Especially over in the goalie corner. I sat in my cubby, sandwiched between Lukin and the half-wall by a side entrance. Having nowhere else to go, our bulky leg pads invaded each other’s space. I was surprised my pads didn’t disintegrate where they touched.
With the team’s attention, Coach Hansson quickly recapped the game plan for today. We were playing the Pittsburgh Piranhas. They were top two in the eastern conference and were on a massive winning streak. They were a tough team and had already beat the Blizzards bloody a month ago as our team had been struck with a bit of an injury problem amongst its players. It was going to be a rough game. A smile crept up on my face just thinkingabout it.
Coach finished talking logistics and went silent. Everyone waited.
“It’s going to be an interesting game tonight,” Coach said. “All eyes are going to be on us. Don’t let it sike you out. You know what you have to do. We are here to make this team the best it can be, so do your part and your very best. Good luck.”
I stared at Hansson. That last part seemed oddly directed at me, but I couldn’t tell how. I looked around the room but could only meet Mason’s eyes, everyone else staring at Coach or atthe floor.
Hansson clapped. “Okay, let’s get this done.”
The team stood as one and whooped. I gathered my glovesand mask.
“Good luck,” Lukin snarked as he pushedaround me.
I narrowed my eyes after him. Taking one more deep breath, I centered myself, pushed back some blonde strands that had escaped my braid, and slipped on my mask. It was go time. I stepped to the front of the line forming at the rink entrance, grabbed my stick, and led the team through the dimly lit tunnel.
I only had to wait a moment before the team was announced, and I rushed onto the ice, my team following. We took a few laps around, and I stared at the audience in awe.
The arena was packed to the rafters, the overwhelming amount of white and ice blue making the rink look like our team’s namesake—a blizzard. Dozens of signs rose above the crowd. Held by more women and girls than I had ever seen at a hockey stadium at once, the posters were decorated with my name or number. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Rachel McCarthy had something similar for her first game but seeing it in person, instead of through a television screen, was a whole different experience.
It was amazing, but as I flew past the crowd, a pang shot through my heart. The seats were in section D, right behind the glass. I didn’t have to look hard to find them; they drew me toward them. But they were filled with the wrong people.
Instead of the faces of my parents, a strange family dressed in Blizzard’s blue and white cheered. The mother had a little girl in her arms, and a teenage boy sat to the father’s right. It was like looking into a time-warping mirror.
I scooped up a stray puck from the ice and, on my next lap around, threw it to the family that wasn’t mine.
The whistle blew, and a puck was dropped into the ensuing fray. Two sticks jabbed at the rubber disk, fighting for the upper hand. The Piranhas won, and a red-clad forward charged down the ice, his team flanking him. My team followed at a leisurely pace.
Damn it.
