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“I’m fine,” I answered Jones truthfully and eyed himcuriously.
“Uh, okay.” He fidgeted, shifting on his skates, his concerned face becomingsheepish.
“Are you mad, though?” Ian Decker, a defenseman, asked with a wince.
I tried not to laugh in his face and only half succeeded. I was more pissed about the puck than anything they had or hadn’t done. “Are you kidding me? This is the most fun I’ve hadin years!”
From the looks on their faces, they were questioning my sanity. I chuckled again. I was basically playing against a professional hockey team all by myself! Who else can say they’vedone that?
I shooed them away. “Go on.”
They dispersed, all but one going to the face-off circle closest to me. Ethan Jones veered to the bench and had a quick, quiet talk with Coach. When they broke up, Jones joined the rest ofhis line.
I reattached my face mask straps, put on my glove, and got back in the net.
It was on the next puck drop, lucky number twenty-one, that our captain went to work. Jones stole the puck and flew across the ice, Blizzards in tow. The Piranhas were as stunned as the crowd by the team’s sudden activity, and their hesitation allowed for a Blizzards’breakaway.
Poor Charlie, the Piranha goaltender, didn’t stand a chance. The puck bounced between Jones and Kingston until they decided to stop playing with their prey, and Kingston slammed the puck into the goal, the net billowing with the impact.
Our goal horn blared.
Well, would you look at that.
Their celebration was thankfully tame—a simple high five. The confused crowd mumbled. A few whoops came from the back, but most of the home crowd didn’t seem inclined to forgive themjust yet.
Coach called for a line switch, and on his way off the ice, Kingston caught my eyes and gaveme a nod.
I adjusted my pads and deepened my squat. It looked like the game had finally started.
With the help of my teammates, the score was 2-4 by the end of the period.Better late than never, I guess.
The team trudged into the locker room silently. Words were unnecessary at this point.
Following the team inside, I stopped to get a bottle of Gatorade and a granola bar before taking my seat in the quiet locker room. Overheated, I stripped off my sweater and upper body pads. I didn’t think I had ever sweated this much from a single period of play.
I chugged half my drink in one breath then started in on my snack, aware of every eye on me but not caring.
Mason, who had been glowering the entire period, even when he was put in after the team started trying again, stomped over to me. “Move over,” he growled at Lukin. Either out of fear or because of seniority, Lukin obeyed, and Mason took his seat, pissed-off expression still in place. Aww.My savior.
Mason wasn’t stupid; he knew what was going on. We have been playing together since we were preteens. He knew the shit I had to go through; he was there for most of it. He had just hoped his current team was above it. I knew better. He nudged my shoulder in solidarity, and I smiled around my granola. It was us against the world just like always.
“What just happened?” Henry Nicks, a rookie, asked a couple seats away. He must not have been briefed beforethe game.
“It was a test,” Mason volunteered when no one else answered. Uh, oh. His Bronx was coming out, his tone leaving no question about how irritated he was. Half the gazes in the room turned to the floor uncomfortably.
At Nicks’ still-confused face, I finished off my granola bar and filled him in.
“They wanted to make sure I was worth all the bullshit they’re about to go through. You must have seen the news coverage around Rachel McCarthy. Breakingoneglass ceiling comes with consequences, but two? Rachel and I are not only the only two women in the league, we’re also the only out queer people. I got a ton of shit in Seattle even though I barely stepped onto the ice. Now here in New York where I’m a fresh face and actually starting games? The media is going to be on myass. It’s going to be a goddamn circus, but if I flaked out on the first game and quit, it would have been a non-issue. Hence a test. Judging by the sudden desire to act like fucking professionals after I got grazed, I’m guessing I passed?” I shot the last part toward Coach Hansson, who had been leaning against the whiteboard the entire time.
He gave a nod.
Then for the first time since I “met” Sebastian Kingston, he spoke to me. “Yeah, you’re worth it. Now there’s just one question—do you thinkweareworth it?”
I stared at him for a second before the laughter burst out of me, uncontrolled and genuine. Kingston raised an eyebrow, the other one joining it as Mason’s low chuckles blended with my slightly hysterical giggles.
“Do you really think that you could make me quit this game?” I asked through my shaking. “I’ve been proving myself my entire life, bigshot. This little cold shoulder act of all of yours is the least of my worries. Right now, you should focus on taking back the game. If you can, YourMajesty.”
The tension shattered, and a few of the guys broke into good-natured “ohhhs” as Kingston’s face cracked with a tiny grin. Huh. I didn’t think his face did that. The grey eyes that had been so cold earlier, sparkled with a hint of playfulness.
