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Bottom line is that now everyone will know I’m a Strike. I should be jumping for joy, but instead, I’m nervous. I smack my cheeks. Hard. The slapping sound brings all activity to a halt, and all eyes settle on me.
“And who cares?” I say aloud, even though I’m talking to myself. “Who gives a damn if everyone in this school hates us? We didn’t come here to be everyone’s besties but to play hockey and to kick ass at it.”
“Aw, yeah.” JT slams her hand on her bare thigh and jumps to her feet. “Luz is right. Let’s just do our thing.”
Chelsea grabs my shoulder. When I look at her, she’s smirking. “Besides, once they see how amazing we are on the ice, they won’t be able to stop themselves from falling for us.”
“That’s right, baby!” Brittany Thomas, one of the forwards, tosses her dreadlocks over her shoulder. “And look at us, we are fire. Those nerds don’t know what they’re missing out on.”
One by one, the whole team gets infected by that mood. Amid a chorus of yeahs and hollers, my knee stops bouncing. I put on my long wool socks and slide my feet into my skates. I even hum a song as I lace them up really tight. It takes me a moment to realize the song in my head is “We Are The Champions.”
When I finish putting on all my pads—legs, top, and elbows—I realize I have a problem.
“Yo, where are the official jerseys?” I ask, peeping at the other stalls. Everyone has their practice jerseys hanging there instead of official ones with their last names and numbers.
JT blinks up at me real fast. “I forgot about that. Somehow, I thought we were gonna play with the practice ones.”
“That’s on me,” Coach Young says, entering the room with the rest of her staff. Coach McDonald carries a big cardboard box in her arms. “The jerseys arrived last minute.”
The training coach drops the box unceremoniously. Meanwhile, the head coach motions at us to stand in line. In various states of undress, the team stands before them.
Okay, my nerves have morphed into a different kind of fluttering in my veins. Excitement.
Coach Young crouches before the box. Time slows down as she flips the flaps open, one by one, and pulls out the first jersey. “Let’s see… Leblanc.”
“Here!” She gets the jersey flung at her face.
“White.”
Chelsea braces for the throw. “Here.”
Since she’s next to me, I can look at the details up close. The base color is baby blue, with white and dark blue trim. There’s a big lightning streak at the front in the dark blue color. The words Thunder Strikes are written in a vintage-looking font, with the name of the school at the top.
I exhale in relief. Thank heavens it’s not some pink monstrosity.
“Hold up.” I get closer. “Is that an A?”
Chelsea looks down, and sure enough, there’s an A in the top corner.
“Ooh.”
That sound comes from Chelsea, from me, and from everyone else in the room.
“Rodriguez.”
Before I can even look at the coach, she flings my jersey at my face with perfect precision. I can confirm the fabric is pretty tasty.
I pull some fluff off my tongue and check out my jersey. Number five. My last name is spelled correctly. Success.
While I’m doing my usual wiggling dance to pull it on, someone gasps with enough intensity to drain half the oxygen in the room. I freeze, but I don’t need to look around long to find the cause of the shock. It’s me. Everyone’s staring at me.
“What—”
JT yanks my jersey all the way down and shouts. “All hail the captain!”
“The heck?” I finish my own question.
Stretching the fabric forward, I catch the C on my breast.
