Cold Day in the Sun

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-3367-3

  Text copyright © 2019 Sara Biren

  Book design by Siobhán Gallagher

  Published in 2019 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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  To Troy,

  my favorite metalhead, my favorite everything

  Chapter One

  I’m late. The first song on the warm-up playlist is almost over.

  The music from the arena’s sound system is loud, heavy, fast. It drills through me as I step onto the ice and skate toward the bench, my gloves tucked under my arm. I shake out the stiff, weighted feeling of exhaustion that comes from a day of early-morning practice followed by seven hours of riveting public education. I both dread and welcome the hour of intense drills, the stretch and burn in my muscles, the pure instinct of movement and play.

  I also dread the beatdown I’m going to get for being late, even though I have a good reason.

  I grab a water bottle and squirt some into my mouth before snapping the strap of my helmet closed and dropping the cage.

  “Hey, Princess.” My linemate Justin “Slacks” Swenson skates up next to me. “You’re late. I’d watch out if I were you, because Captain Hot Shit is in a mood today.” Justin has a different name for our co-captain, Wes “Hot Sauce” Millard, every other day.

  I try to laugh away some of the tension. “Tell me something I don’t know,” I say as Justin skates away.

  “Dutch.” The word is sharp. Here we go.

  I spin around and pinch my lips together as I stare down our co-captain. Even through the wire cage on the front of his helmet, I can see that Hot Shit—er, Hot Sauce—Millard’s eyes flash with irritation.

  “You’re late,” he growls. “Unacceptable.”

  I roll my eyes. “I had to stay after class to talk to one of my teachers, OK? I mean, last I checked, academics come first, right?”

  I hate that every sentence ends with a question mark, like I’m asking for his approval. Which, I guess, I sort of am.

  He sighs. “Which teacher?” he asks, his words laced with frustration.

  He thinks I’m lying. Ass. “Rieland. Journalism. She rejected my story idea. Happy now?”

  I don’t tell him that it was the third story idea for the Jack Pine print edition that she’s rejected this week. I need to come up with something good—and fast.

  He holds my gaze for another second, then looks away. “Just get out there, Dutch,” he mutters. Can’t argue with grades, although I’m somewhat surprised that he doesn’t at least try.

  “And don’t call me Dutch,” I snap as I join my teammates, Hot Sauce on my heels.

  In all my years of playing hockey—eleven total between the Halcyon Lake Area Youth Hockey Association and on the high school team, thirteen if you count falling on my ass as a toddler, chasing after my brothers—I’ve never had a nickname.

  Most of the guys have them, usually something to do with how they play or some twisted version of their last name. One of our coaches started calling my older brother Carter “Six-Four” back in our Squirt days because he was already so tall, and sure as shit, he’s six-four. Most people shorten it to Six. Wes, apparently, has been called Hot Sauce for years because he puts Cholula on everything. Holls and Holly are the closest things I’ve had to a nickname, until Hot Sauce moved to town, along with his giant ego and state championship medal. He snagged a co-captain spot alongside Carter a year later.

  A spot that rightfully should have gone to someone with team history, in my opinion. But obviously my opinion wasn’t shared by the majority of my teammates who voted him in.

  “What’s your secret?” Justin asks me as I skate up behind him. “I expected him to bitch you out.”

  I shrug. “My irresistible charm, Slacks. What the fuck else?”

  He snorts. “Nice mouth, Princess.”

  I’m a lot of things, but a princess is not one of them.

  “Hot Flash thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he scored that goddamn game-winning overtime goal,” Justin goes on. “Then he moves here and kisses Coach’s ass and the next thing we know, he’s captain.” He’s on a roll now, although it’s a quiet one. He skates off, catching a pass.

  Justin and I go way back, linemates since Peewees, and I trust him almost as much as I do my brothers. And he’s found me to be an easy confidant for years. Two months ago, I was the first person he told about his crush on Joseph Lincoln, senior class treasurer and track star. “Slacks-n-Tracks,” I like to call them—well, now that they’re together and out, that is.

  I follow the action on the ice, leaning in and waiting for Justin to swing back around to pass me the puck.

  “Dutch! You’re up!” Hot Sauce yells from behind me. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  I connect with the puck and drive it toward the net, flick it neatly past the goalie’s right shoulder.

  Yessss.

  “Nice shot,” Carter says from his perch near the net. When I return to the back of the line, though, Hot Sauce doesn’t say a word.

  Five minutes before practice is scheduled to end, Coach Giles blows his whistle and motions for us to join him at the bench. His typically stoic face crinkles into something like a smile. “Great news,” he says. “Just got a text from the activities office. Halcyon Lake has been selected as one of this year’s HockeyFest cities.”

  Carter whoops and Justin lifts me off my skates and spins me around as the guys talk over one another in their excitement.

  “Holy crap,” Showbiz Schroeder says. “Ho. Ly. Crap.”

  This is the closest Showbiz comes to swearing (admirable, considering the potty mouths on our team), further evidence that this announcement is a big deal.

  Minnesota is known as the State of Hockey, and the annual HockeyFest weekend is one of the most anticipated of the year. Five cities are chosen to represent different regions of the state. The event brings scouts from colleges across the country and sometimes even from the NHL. Some people view HockeyFest as a popularity contest, and technically there’s not a stated, official requirement that you have a decent record, but everyone knows you need one to be considered.

  The team quiets and Coach continues. “One host city will be selected to have their game televised statewide. Last year, a national station picked up the game. This could be a huge opportunity for us. And I’m sure you all know the selection process.”

  A few of the guys nod, and I bite my bottom lip. Jason Fink, a wacky sports anchor from one of the Twin Cities news stations, travels around the state and interviews players from each town’s teams about what makes the place special, and viewers then vote for their favorite. Last year, the high
school game that was televised nationwide? Mondale-Petersburg in northwest Minnesota, known for seven Olympic gold medalists, five state championships, and an arena shaped like a giant hockey puck.

  Halcyon Lake? We’ve got a recently renovated outdoor rink originally built in 1930 called Hole in the Moon. It has stone walls and a stone warming house, and it’s on the National Register of Historic Places.

  And we’ve got me.

  The girl.

  I cringe as Coach turns his gaze toward me. “Fink will interview players from a few teams—the girls’ team, a couple of Peewees—and Holland.”

  All the guys turn to stare at me like something choreographed straight out of High School Musical. I look down at my skates.

  “Holland,” Carter says. I look over as he nods. “Deep breath,” he mouths.

  I inhale for four beats, hold it, and blow it out through my mouth for six, this new thing that Coach taught us at the beginning of the season that I thought was total bullshit until I realized it actually works. I take another breath.

  “Holland hates to be the center of attention,” Luke Abbott, the center on my line, says, not unsympathetically.

  He isn’t wrong. I didn’t have to worry about being the girl until I made the JV team freshman year and, suddenly, a girl playing on the boys’ team was newsworthy. I’ve done everything I can to stay out of the spotlight. I write the articles. I don’t star in them.

  Hmm. Maybe I could write an article about HockeyFest. I doubt Ms. Rieland would reject that idea.

  “Well,” Hot Sauce says, skating over and patting me on the shoulder. “I guess Dutch will have to take one for the team, then.”

  I shrug his hand off and glance up at him, annoyed. Something flashes across his face that can only be described as intense frustration.

  The feeling’s mutual, buddy. At the moment, I can’t even tell him not to call me Dutch, because I’m afraid that other, more vicious words will spill out. Or that I’ll start to cry, which would be much, much worse.

  “She’s got a great story,” Coach says. “And you all know it. I don’t have many details yet, but I can tell you that Holland’s interview is scheduled for a week from Saturday. And they’ll send a crew up sometime that week to get footage from practice. I’ll know more tomorrow. That’s all I got.”

  That’s plenty. I turn and skate away, the first off the ice.

  Chapter Two

  Being the only girl on the boys’ hockey team offers exactly one perk: my own personal locker room. It’s not actually mine, of course. It’s the designated girls’ locker room at the arena, and when our team practices, there aren’t any other girls around. Well, except for Darla, who runs concessions, and sometimes her daughter, Molly, who’s a year younger than me and helps out on game nights.

  It’s quiet in the locker room, especially after the loud reception of Coach’s news. I relish the peacefulness but don’t waste any time stripping off my stinking, sweaty gear and pulling on jeans and a clean T-shirt. Today it’s a long-sleeved Foo Fighters tee. Soft, washed-out charcoal gray with the double-F logo surrounded by the band name and wasting light in a circular border. My favorite band, my favorite album, and my number one go-to when the stress and pressure settle in. I even named my blog after the album. Pretty sure there’s some Wasting Light in my very near future.

  I sling my gear bag over my shoulder and head out to the lobby to wait for Carter. The Bantam game must be starting soon, because parent volunteers have set up a card table in front of the main entrance to collect the three-dollar entry fee and pass out rosters. I hang out next to a pillar near the concession stand to avoid the traffic.

  Two guys in their fifties or sixties hand over their crisp singles at the card table and step into the short line at the concession stand.

  “It’s embarrassing, is what it is,” I hear one of the old-timers saying. I recognize him as George, from Third Street Rental, the DVD and video-game rental place. Not that I spend a lot of time renting movies, but I have gone in a time or two for their other draw—homemade popcorn of every flavor imaginable. George isn’t exactly the friendliest guy in town, at least not to me.

  His buddy, the owner of Pete’s Hardware on Main Street, nods in agreement. “Embarrassing,” he repeats.

  “I don’t care if they think they’ll have a better chance of getting that broadcast. That girl playing with the boys is an embarrassment to the sanctity of the sport.”

  My stomach drops, crash-lands.

  An embarrassment to the sanctity of the sport.

  I’ve heard that one a time or two hundred.

  “Not to mention a real liability. Hockey’s too rough for girls,” Pete says. “My granddaughter wanted to play, and her father said, ‘Absolutely not.’ She’s figure skating instead. What is Marcus Delviss thinking, letting his only daughter play with the boys?”

  I roll my eyes. What is Marcus thinking? How fucking awesome his daughter is, for one.

  “And she’s taking a spot that rightfully belongs to someone else. It’s a boys’ hockey team.”

  “At the very least, they never should have moved her up from junior varsity. There’s a boy out there who’ll never have a shot at varsity because she took his spot.”

  I earned that spot.

  No matter how many times I hear it, this stuff still hurts. I close my eyes, lean my head against the pillar, and pinch my lips together to stop from saying anything. That would only add fuel to the fire.

  Pete buys them two small cups of coffee and stuffs the change into the tip jar. Tonight’s tips support the upcoming Bantam boys’ tournament in St. Paul. I’d bet all the money in that jar that Pete and George wouldn’t turn over their hard-earned cash for a girls’ team.

  The high school has a girls’ team, too, and it’s not that I don’t want to play with them or that I think I’m too good for them. I’ve grown up playing with my brothers, with boys. I like the extra challenge. I like to push myself. My dad and my brothers have pushed me, too. They’ve never treated me any differently because I’m a girl. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I belong here. End of story.

  I scowl as George and Pete walk through the double doors to the rink. Screw them.

  My scowl deepens when I see Hot Sauce leaning against a pillar on the other side of the lobby, scrolling on his phone. Shit. I cling to the small hope that he didn’t overhear the two old-timers. For all I know, he could agree with them.

  I’ll just pretend he’s not standing there and get some coffee for the ride home.

  “Hey, Darla,” I say as I drop the heavy bag at my feet and lean up against the concessions counter. “Fresh pot?”

  “Just gave Pete and George the last of it, but I should have a fresh one in a minute,” Darla says.

  I experience a disproportionate amount of satisfaction that Pete and George got the dregs of the last pot.

  I chitchat with Darla (and continue to ignore Hot Sauce—why is he still here, anyway?) until the light on the coffee maker clicks off. She calls to Molly for a large. “Two sugars and a cream. Don’t forget a straw for our girl.”

  Molly pours the coffee, taps in two packets of sugar and one little tub of cream, and gives it a stir with a wooden stick. She carefully places the lid on top, grabs a straw, and walks up to the counter. She points the straw at me. I reach for it, but she pulls back.

  “Do you know that Americans use five hundred million plastic straws every day? Where do you think those straws end up?”

  Here we go. Molly’s headed up the school’s Earth Day efforts for as long as I can remember. She went vegetarian at the age of twelve. At fourteen, she partnered with the electric co-op to provide every single Halcyon Lake household with two reusable shopping bags, and she convinced the local grocery store to stop using plastic bags. She’s a force.

  “A landfill?” I guess.

  “If we’re lucky!” she says. “More likely, up a poor sea turtle’s nose! Plastic pollution kills millions of seabirds every year. Tha
t includes straws.”

  “Good thing we’re so far from the ocean, then,” Darla mutters.

  “What about our lakes, Mom?” Molly asks. “Our birds? Our fish?”

  Darla rolls her eyes.

  “No, it’s OK,” I say. “I want to know.” At this, Molly tentatively holds out the straw, and I grab it before she can change her mind, tearing the thin paper wrapper open with my teeth and sliding the straw into the hole in the lid. “I’d love to write an article about you for the Jack Pine. For Earth Day, maybe?”

  She nods excitedly.

  I reach back and rub my tense neck muscles. I started drinking everything with a straw a couple of years ago after a nasty hit that resulted in a trip headfirst into the boards and a mild concussion. Tipping my head back to drink gave me the spins. I recovered from the concussion but haven’t kicked the straw habit.

  Let’s be honest. At the moment, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than a straw stuck up a sea turtle’s nose.

  She’s moved on to her spiel about plastic shopping bags when the doors between the lobby and the rink bang open and the boys fill up the space with their big personalities, noise, and stench.

  “Hey, Holland.”

  I turn to find Jack “Lumberjack” Lewis leaning against the counter. Jack is a year younger than me, a buddy of my younger brother, Jesse. He’s the starting center on the JV squad, leads the team in goals, and dresses once in a while for varsity. Cocky. Obnoxious. Especially when he flips his long hair away from his face. He skated practice with us this afternoon.

  “Oh, hey, Jack,” I say and turn my attention back to Molly. “Thanks for the tip.”

  She sighs. “Holland. I’ve been telling you this for months. I just got the grocery store and the drugstore to carry metal straws, so pick some up, OK?”

  “Oh, OK, sure,” I say and then turn back to Lumberjack, who for some reason is tugging at my sleeve. “What?”

  “Pretty exciting about HockeyFest, huh?” he says.

  “Yep.” The p pops.