Bronwyn

With all my gear on, I feel like the weight I ought to be. Not the feathery, could-get-blown-away of being without my pads, helmet, skates, and practice uniform. This is a weight I’m meant to carry, and it doesn’t feel like a burden. Not until the end of a three-hour practice, anyway. Right now is just the beginning.

I love the smell of the ice. The rink. The way sound bounces in here. The ruckus of my rowdy-ass teammates skating around, waiting for things to start. Some are standing around chatting, their helmets tucked under their arms while they talk. “Gossip” is more like it, because at the Snow and Ice Games village, there’s more than enough to go around. Who’s banging who is already a popular topic and could go on for hours even though the real debauchery of the SIG snow globe is yet to begin—the Games haven’t started yet, let alone finished. Some of them are practicing their victory laps around the rink. Some of them are already working with their sticks and pucks.

Me? I’m waiting to see what kind of music Coach Levenson is going to put on for practice today.

I wouldn’t be lying if I said he’s the best coach I’ve ever had, but maybe that’s not right. Maybe he’s just the best fit for me. My coach back at BC is a great coach, and has a record better than Coach Levenson’s at BU to prove it. But what she also has is this way of making me feel like I’m never good enough. Sure Coach Levenson expects us to bust our asses, but when we’ve done well, he tells us that, too. Sparingly, but that means I believe him when he says it.

It’s maybe petty, but I play harder for him than I do for Coach Baker, because I know he’ll acknowledge it. Know I’ll get that sweet aural honey of praise, and a smile. Best feeling in the world. I like it even better in some ways than the smiles I get from Brody, which is weird because you’d think smiles from your boyfriend would be more rewarding than from your coach.

Brody waves at me from the seats right behind the team bench, where he’s hanging out with his friend Eli, and I smile and wave back. He’s the kind of guy a lot of my teammates drool over. Cropped short light brown hair, blue eyes, and a body for days, plus we can talk hockey. Basically perfect.

I wish he weren’t here.

Not, like, not in Denver at all . . . probably. He came to support me, even though he didn’t make the men’s team, and that was super sweet. It was. What’s less sweet is that I feel like he wants me to hand him a goddamn cookie for it every time I see him. I actually have other stuff to do. Like practice, conditioning, watching tape of our competition, and yeah, I’d like to actually have some fun while I’m here. Not to mention the reason we’re here: to compete.

All the practices are open, so even though his is not the voice I should be hearing while I’m out on the ice, I can’t exactly tell him to go away. Not without looking like a huge bitch, anyway. He’s a good hockey player, missed making the men’s team by a smidge, but that’s just it. He’s a good men’s hockey player, and sometimes he forgets that we play different games. But still, he tries to help me be better. He does.

I’m about to skate closer to talk to him at a reasonable volume but before I can, the music turns on. From the first few beats, I recognize the song, and I know what kind of workout this is going to be. Which is what makes me swear under my breath. Not quietly enough, apparently, because then Jennie’s knocking her shoulder pad against mine. “Why the potty mouth?”

I give her the side-eye, because seriously? “It’s the Go-Go’s.”

Jennie blinks at me.

“We Got the Beat?”

She shrugs and her mouth tugs to the side. “So what?”

So what? Am I the only person on this team who’s noticed you can tell how hard of a practice we’re in for by the music Coach puts on? His 1982 pop hits playlist means we’re totally fucked and will be sweating our asses off by the end of our ice time. It’s clearly my imagination, but my gear starts to feel heavier already, like someone’s hefted lifting plates onto my shoulders.

I look around the rink to see if I can find Colleen and Ximena—they play for Coach Levenson at BU. Their shoulders have slumped and their heads have dropped back. They know what’s coming, and I’m more confident in my assessment. Unfortunately.

So I nudge Jennie with an elbow. “Coach is going to beat the hell out of us. Just you wait.”

By the time he’s circled us up to talk before getting down to business, the song’s switched over to “867-5309/Jenny,” and that’s my confirmation. We’re going to be hitting the showers real hard when this is over.

Ash

The extent to which I hate that guy cannot be understated. Overstated? I always get confused, but whatever. Bottom line: I hate that guy. A lot. No matter how badly I’d like to punch him in the face, though, I can’t. I could, however, kick him out of practice, but I don’t think it’s worth upsetting Bronwyn.

She’s out on the ice with the rest of her team where they’re working their drills, clouds of ice dust coming up from twenty-one pairs of skates as they stop short. I love those clouds. Love the sound skates make as they dig into the ice. Love the smell of ice rinks. Especially in the early morning.

Getting ice time at reasonable hours of the day is supposed to be a mark of being senior, of being a big deal. Yes, not having to set my alarm for 4:30 A.M. is nice, but I wouldn’t mind going back to the days when if I wanted to get on the ice, that’s when I’d have to do it. When the only other people awake are awake for the same reason you are, it creates a community, a group of people who have a certain level of dedication. Those are my people.

Not like the dickwads who are sitting behind me.

But Brody dipshit Hill keeps Bronwyn Perry happy, and keeping Bronwyn happy is part of my job. She’s the bedrock of this team. I’d call her the star, but that would embarrass her. She’s not a showy player, but she’s just so fucking good she can’t help but shine. When she’s a hundred percent, she—and therefore the rest of the team—is unstoppable. When she’s off her game, though . . .

Not thinking about that. She’s on, looks great on the ice, sable ponytail swinging over her jersey as she goes through the drills.

I gesture to the assistant coach who’s running the drills on the ice to switch it up, and she barks out my orders. While the girls get into the new formation, I pace on top of the bench. From here, I can survey my domain, get a bigger picture of how the girls are doing, individually and as a whole. Girls.

If any of them could hear me call them that, they’d shoot a puck straight for my head. A not insignificant number would have a decent shot of hitting their target. I wouldn’t blame them. The thing is, though, I’ve been doing this for a while and I learned a long time ago not to get involved with my players. Even when we were the same age, that was a bad idea. Now that I’m getting older but they’re staying the same age? Even worse.

So in my head, I think of them as girls. Always. When I talk to them in the locker room and during practice and at all other times? Ladies. That distancing tactic, it works. Most of the time. Say, approximately ninety-nine times out of a hundred.

Arms crossed over my chest and pacing up and down the bench, I watch in awe as Bronwyn flies through the pucks that are set up for the stick-handling drill. She’s got some damn fine moves and even in this basic drill, any Tom, Dick, or Brody would be able to tell she’s the best we’ve got on the ice. Give me a team full of Bronwyns, and I’d destroy everyone else. Of course, I’d probably also be dead from blue balls. Dude can die from that, right?

Watching the girls, I try to ignore the running commentary coming from behind me. Brody has been sitting here every goddamn practice of every goddamn day since we got to Denver, and his friend Eli, too, when he hasn’t got a team obligation of his own. And they have oh-so-much to say—too much if you ask me, considering Eli made the men’s team by the skin of his teeth, and Brody not at all.

I’d like to say I felt bad about that, but I don’t. It’s not like he was deserving and got passed over. The cold, hard truth is that he’s not good enough. He and Bronwyn have dated since they were in high school, and through college. Hockey royalty if there is such a thing. I’ve never quite figured out why, though. Especially when he says the shit he says.

Right on cue: “She’s not bad for a girl, right?”

My fingers clutch my clipboard and it takes every ounce of control I have not to grab it with two hands and turn around to smack Brody in the face with it. Bronwyn could skate circles around him until he got dizzy. She’s faster than Brody and more elegant on her worst days than he is on his best; she has better technique, and a dedication like I’ve never seen. Not bad for a girl? You should be so lucky as to be as talented as your girlfriend. Maybe if you were, you’d be wearing a Team USA tracksuit right now, asshat.

Instead of physically assaulting Brody and ending up a first page news story—which is the only way Brody’s getting any coverage at the SIGs—I walk to the other end of the bench. Bronwyn’s skating to the end of the drill line, and she takes a swipe at her nose through the grill of her helmet.

Though she’s unaware of it, that’s my cue to call practice, so I step down from the bench, gritting my teeth so I don’t wince. Even with the padded floor, it’s still unpleasant. I toss my clipboard onto the bench and clap my hands a few times, loudly.

“Nice job today, ladies. Clear the ice and then let’s circle up.”

The girls do as I’ve asked, and I retrieve my clipboard from the bench because I’ve got some notes I don’t want to forget to give—Nguyen’s still not using her lower body enough on her wrist shots; Harris has got to watch her five-hole; and if Stewart doesn’t knock it off, she’s going to get called for slashing—and I have to ignore yet more smack talk from the peanut gallery.

Eli’s telling Brody, “Dude, I gotta go so I’m not late for practice. We’re over at the other arena today.”

“Yeah, of course. Have fun with the real hockey players. Check you later, man.”

Real hockey players? How about real SIG athletes? I have so much rage in my heart and I have to keep it off my face because I don’t want the girls to think I’m pissed at them. Brody is such a frigging douchebag. No, that’s an insult to douchebags everywhere.