Ash

The first game was frustrating as hell, but it’s over now. All the girls are suited up and getting ready to go out on the rink and kick some serious ass against China. The ripples from Bronwyn boarding the Norwegian player have smoothed out, and it’s fun to watch my team. Not only are they great players by themselves, but something happens when we put them all together. Some gorgeous alchemy. They’ve really solidified as a team, and it makes me stupidly proud and happy to see it.

My girls, my team, and tonight they’re going to play right. Come what may, they’re going to leave this arena with their heads held high, because I’ll goddamn make sure of it. Before we leave the locker room, they crowd in together, shoulder and hip pads knocking, skates bumping up against each other. Their faces are eager, eyes bright, and damn do they look ready to play.

There haven’t been so many times in my life when I’ve felt more than this. Certainly nothing has made me this happy. I look around, making eye contact with each one of them, willing them to know how proud I am of each of them, and how much faith I have that they’re going to go out there and kill this game. They’re going to win, and then it’s onto the semifinal and medal rounds. Yeah, all the way, because that’s how confident I am.

Before we head out to the ice, they do their cheer that Lam and Cunningham came up with. It’s pretty good, I think, and their enthusiasm when they shout it is infectious.

Sticks and pucks can break your bones

But we are, we are, in the zone.

Heads held high and sticks down low,

Let’s show them how we run this show.

USA, USA, USA, heeeeyyyyyy!

After the girls have done their thing, they tromp up the angled hallway to the bench, and my starters get on the ice.

The tension in the arena is so potent, I think it might manifest in some kind of force, like a vibration. One that’s so powerful it’ll shatter the perfectly smoothed ice.

I swear to god, one day when I’m too old to coach anymore, I hope they’ll let me drive the Zamboni. That’s what I wanted to do when I started playing hockey. My parents would suit me up and shove me out onto the ice and I’d fall down over and over. I hated it so much and I begged to quit. I’m glad they didn’t let me, but my only fond memories from my first year or so of hockey were watching that Zamboni go around the rink.

Now of course, I’ve got happier memories, and this new one is burning itself indelibly into my brain. In the box, we’re all on edge when the puck drops. Maybe it’s some kind of superstitious nonsense, but when Bronwyn steers it handily away from the Chinese player’s stick, I feel like I can breathe again. This is going to be okay.

Bronwyn

We won. Not barely, and not by playing dirty. By playing the way Coach taught us, and sticking with it. It was . . . awesome. No sick lurching of my stomach, just an incredible elated feeling in the center of the crush of my team, celebrating our victory.

After a—hopefully not obnoxiously—long celebration, we shake hands with the Chinese players and wish them well. I hate the looks on their faces, knowing they’re done. They never get to lay blade on Denver SIG ice ever again. I hate it, but I don’t regret it, don’t feel guilty. Just empathy, knowing how I’d feel if it were us on the other side of this polite handshake. We’re all world-class athletes here; we all know what it feels like to be the best. When you’re not? It feels like shit.

The arena’s quieted some, but all of a sudden, there’s a rustle on the side of the ice and someone hops over onto the rink. I’m not so worried—some jackass did that during one of our practices and security had him out on his ass in under two minutes—but then I recognize the guy. Brody. And he’s not alone. He’s followed by a camera crew. What the hell?

He’s headed in my direction, looking awkward on the ice, where he usually looks so smooth, because he’s got street shoes on and not skates, but nonetheless he makes his way toward me. And it really is toward me. He’s not stopping and high-fiving any of the other girls, which would totally be his M.O. Leave it to Brody to make this about him. But whatever, the media loves him, and they love the story of him coming to the SIGs even though he didn’t make the men’s team. If it gets women’s hockey more attention? I’m not going to complain. Much.

Except he’s not being Brody the good time guy, celebrating with the victors who are headed to the semifinals. No, he’s got that predatory look on his face. The one that says he wants something and fuck all if he’s not going to get it, because he’s Brody goddamn Hill and he always gets what he wants. Sometimes his boundless amounts of privilege really get on my nerves.

After what seems like forever and a day, he finally reaches me.

“Brody, what’s going on? What’re you doing? Why are you on the ice?” All of these are perfectly reasonable questions, but he seems disinclined to answer them.

Instead, he gets this cocky smile on his face, one I used to love but now just makes me pause. He’s standing there, and then he takes his eyes off me, turns to the camera crew, and I realize what he’s doing. Trying to make sure they’ve got a good shot. For what I’m not sure, and I kind of don’t want to know but then—

Brody goes down on one knee, and fumbles in his pocket. My heart does this funny stutter, and then I feel like I can’t breathe. Yeah, I’ve been skating my ass off and worked up a good sweat, but this is the first time I’ve felt really winded. Like my knees are going to buckle and I’m going to fall over. What the actual fuck?

I’d like to say something, make him stop, but I can’t, because if I can’t breathe, then I sure as hell can’t talk. But everything feels so godawful slow, and I can see it coming. The small velvet box, the way he cracks it open and makes sure the camera catches the glint of the diamond under the bright lights of the arena. Is it also capturing the horrified look on my face? Because all I can think is Do not want. I do not want this.

Not only is he stealing my team’s—my—thunder in our victory, but he’s also forcing my hand. Trying to, anyway. Which is what finally solidifies these nebulous thoughts I’ve been having for a while. I . . . don’t want to marry Brody. I can’t even quite remember anymore why it is we’re together aside from the fact that we’ve always been together. Not always always, but for as long as it’s mattered at all. We’ve always been Bronwyn and Brody, King and Queen of the Rink, we’ve always been a package deal. The thing is, I don’t want to be part of Brody’s package anymore.

It was easier to stay with him, though, through all the small slights and minor betrayals. If people think I don’t know what he says about me behind my back, well, they’re wrong. I do. I’ve just chosen to ignore it because it was easier that way. I’d planned to ignore it for the foreseeable future. Eventually he’d get drafted for an NHL team, or maybe he wouldn’t. Hopefully I’d be playing on a team in the women’s league, and I’d get a job because, those girls don’t make shit for money, and then sooner or later, we’d just . . . stop. Because staying together out of inertia is harder when you’re not, in fact, together.

Maybe Brody saw the writing on the wall just like I did, but instead of it spelling a vague sense of relief, it spelled out panic on his side. Especially since he didn’t make the men’s SIG team. This is his way of holding on.

I’ve been a member of Team Brody for as long as I can remember, but he’s only been a fair-weather fan of mine. That time sophomore year when I broke my arm? He was there but not. I could tell he was looking for a way out if I came through on the other side not able to play, or not able to play as well.

All of this is piling up on my shoulders, weighing me down. I look around at my teammates hoping one of them will somehow, some way, help me. Save me from this. But the ones I can see look ready to swoon. All they’re waiting for is my answer. Which is weird, because I don’t remember Brody asking me. He must’ve, though, because he’s holding my hand and looking up at me expectantly. I can’t look him in the face. I have to look away. The lights in the arena are too bright for me to see exactly how many people are going to witness this and how they feel about it. Probably better that way.

My gaze catches on Coach Levenson who seems to be the only one not waiting with baited breath. I know he doesn’t like Brody, and not just since the game against Norway. I can’t say I blame him, because Brody can be kind of a douche. But I would’ve defended him to Coach if it came down to it. Now I can’t. This is the last straw.

With Coach’s cool gaze on me—saying do whatever you want to do—I find it in me to declare myself firmly on Team Bronwyn.

“No, Brody. I won’t marry you.”