Cold Day in the Sun Page 10

  At that, I let out a long exhale.

  “See what I mean? What are you twisting in knots in that brain of yours?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Not much. But I can guess. You’ve decided that you’re solely responsible for your team getting that broadcast, so you’ve piled that stress on top of all the other stress you’re already feeling.”

  “Yeah, that’s part of it.”

  “Look, Holls, you’re an awesome hockey player. Everybody knows it. You’re on that team because you deserve to be.”

  “Many people disagree with you there.”

  “Such as?”

  I point to the curling newspaper clipping. “Big Don, for one.”

  “You’ve still got that stupid letter up there?”

  “Pete and George, too.”

  “So, a bunch of old-timers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The usual. I’m an embarrassment. A liability because hockey isn’t safe for girls. That I’m taking a spot that rightfully belongs to a boy.”

  “You know that shit’s not true. And since when do you care what a couple of old-timers say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, always?”

  “Bullshit. That’s bullshit. You gonna let them take up all that real estate in your head, Holls? You gonna let those idiots move in and put their muddy feet up on your coffee table and tell you that you’re less than somebody else? Haters gonna hate. You’ve already spent too much time worrying about them. Time to kick them to the curb.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I know it’s never been easy for you. But I also know that you’re not one to back down from a challenge. Don’t let Pete or George or especially Big Donnie mess with your head.”

  He stomps over to my bulletin board, grabs the yellowing newspaper clipping, rips it from beneath the thumbtack, and crumples it up.

  “Hey!” I lunge for the paper, but he lifts it high above his head.

  “No. Done. You are done with this bullshit.”

  “Hunter. Give it back.”

  “Why? So you can continue to torture yourself?”

  “No!” I shout. “For motivation.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Find a healthier motivation. Listen to some Metallica or something. Read the comments on your Facebook fan page.”

  “I have a Facebook fan page?”

  He grins. “Nah, I’m just giving you shit. Look, I gotta go. But about that interview? Just be yourself, tell your truth, and that interview will be a walk in the fucking park.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem.”

  “Look.” He walks to the door. “Holland. Give yourself a break, but whatever you do, don’t fuck this up. See ya.”

  I give him the finger and he laughs.

  Give myself a break.

  If only it were that easy.

  I look at the blank space on the corkboard.

  Doesn’t matter. I still know every single word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Although temps have warmed slightly, it’s still barely above zero when I catch a ride to the arena with Carter.

  I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Tonight, more than any other night, I’ve got to prove myself. I’ve got to show Jason Fink and his Fink at the Rink viewers that Halcyon Lake is worth their vote. My insides flip again as we pull into the arena parking lot, already nearly half full. They flip right back when I see Wes leaning against the concessions counter talking to Molly and Darla. I scurry past, hoping he doesn’t notice me.

  My interview is scheduled during the third period of the JV game, but until then, I need some time alone. The far end of the bleachers is pretty much deserted, most of the small crowd of spectators favoring seats nearer the blue line. I sit at the very top corner of the stands, hopeful that no one will notice me over here.

  I should have expected that Wes would find me. After last night’s awkward car ride and lecture, Wes is the last person I want to talk to right now.

  “Haven’t you said enough?” I ask as he sits down. Too damn close. And then, to make matters worse, he hands me a cup of coffee. With a metal straw.

  “Hello to you, too,” he says. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. And you?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “You’re observant.”

  “I’ve got a gift for you from Molly. Well, the straw’s from Molly. The coffee’s from me.”

  I put both hands around the cup to warm them. “Thank you,” I say, because even if I am irritated with him, I don’t want to be rude. Also: coffee.

  “I talked to Luke,” Wes says. “I basically ripped him a new one for what he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The booze? The screwdriver you were drinking?”

  “He didn’t force me to drink it. I’m a big girl. I make my own decisions.”

  “He convinced you, though, that it would take the edge off? Right?”

  I shrug, take a sip of coffee through the metal straw. Just how I like it. Two sugars and a cream. He pays attention. “Maybe.”

  “Dutch.” Soft. Warm.

  I know he’s looking at me.

  I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, if I look at those warm brown eyes, filled with concern, I’ll remember how his hand felt on my leg, how I would have kissed him if Nance hadn’t come back downstairs, how I told him that I wished I had.

  If I look at him, I’ll think about how hollow I felt in his truck on the ride back to town, after I told him, We can’t.

  “Are you OK?” he asks.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I need you to be OK.”

  “Oh, you need me to be OK?” My tone is sharp. “Why? Are you worried we won’t get the broadcast, too?”

  “You know what, Dutch? For once, I wish you’d stop only seeing me as your captain and realize that I’m your friend. It’s OK for us to be friends, right?”

  I ignore this. “What do you mean, you need me to be OK?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Still, I don’t look at him. Finally, he takes a shallow breath and says, “Part of it is that I need you to be OK for our team. I need you to be on top of your game and go out there and show everyone what you can do. And yeah, part of it is that I need you to kick ass on that interview today so that we get the broadcast. But mostly, I need you to be OK because I care about you, and I don’t want to see you worried or upset.”

  Then his hand is on my back, and he’s running it up and down my spine, gently but deliberately, and my body hums with sensation. My thoughts slow with his touch, my anger at him dissipates.

  “I’m OK,” I tell him quietly after a long moment, hoping that he won’t hear me, that he’ll keep touching me. I crave the contact, any touch.

  “You sure?”

  I nod.

  He stops rubbing my back and runs his hand through his messy hair, and I miss the warmth, the hum of his touch.

  “Dutch, when you go down there for that interview, I want you to remember that you’re talented and you work hard and you deserve to be on this team every single day. When you’re on the ice, you’re—you’re this force. Powerful. Smart. You’re one of the best, Dutch, and all you have to do is tell your story. The rest will take care of itself.”

  Finally, I turn to look at him, and I’m surprised when I don’t find concern in his eyes. Or frustration. I see pride there. He’s proud of me.

  “You look ready,” he says. “You look like you’re ready to shake off the dust of this little town and go conquer the world.”

  “Amazing what a little mascara can do.”

  He turns away. “I’m serious. Be you, Dutch. Don’t try to be someone you’re not. Don’t do this interview for anyone but yourself.”

  We watch the action on the ice for a few minutes, not saying anything else. My little brother hops over the side of the bench on a line change, even though the door is open. He doesn’t make
the landing, though, and falls flat on his ass. I snort. Wes groans.

  “For the love of all things holy,” he murmurs.

  “Wes?”

  “Yeah?”

  I swallow down the emotion that’s threatening to spill over, my gratitude for his belief in me, my worry, my need to feel close to him. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  For a long moment, Wes says nothing. Then he stands. “Second period’s almost over. See you after the interview.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I stand against the plexiglass, in full pads and uniform. I hold my helmet and play with the straps while Jason Fink, tall and lanky with curly red hair, asks me inane questions that I’m sure won’t stay that way. I’ve seen enough of his Fink at the Rink features. He’ll dig.

  “How old were you when you started playing hockey?” he asks.

  “I started skating at three and joined my first team at five.”

  “Have you always played on a boys’ team?”

  “Yes. I’ve got three brothers. I’ve grown up playing with them and their friends, and I’ve only ever played on a boys’ team. When I was younger, there were a couple of other girls until there was a girls’ team in town, but no one consistent.”

  “Why did you stay on the boys’ team?”

  “I wanted to be with players I already connected with. And it’s the only thing I know.”

  Fink pauses, then says, “Some people might say that you think you’re too good for the girls’ team. Is that true?”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve been expecting the conversation to turn down this path. I’m ready for it.

  “No, I don’t think I’m ‘too good’ for the girls’ team. I’ve played with the boys my whole life. Trying out for the boys’ team was the logical next step for me. I’m very lucky that my high school athletic department was receptive to the idea, as well as Coach Giles, Coach Edwards, the rest of the coaching staff, and my teammates. I would hope that any girl in any high school would have that opportunity if that’s what she wished to pursue.”

  Fink nods at me, his eyes crinkled in thought. “What about your teammates? Your male teammates? Do they feel the same way?”

  I shrug. “I’ve played with most of these guys for a long time. They’ve never treated me differently because I’m a girl. The coaching staff, the fans, my teammates all hold me to the same high standards as any other player. If anyone personally feels like they don’t want a girl on their team, I don’t know about it. I can’t control how someone else feels, but I can control how I feel and how I react to situations. I feel honored to be able to play the game with a group of such high-caliber, dedicated players.”

  “You wouldn’t feel honored to play on the girls’ team?”

  “I didn’t say that.” A flutter of nerves makes its way from the pit of my stomach up to my throat and lodges there.

  “But you feel that the girls’ team doesn’t have the same high-caliber pool of talent, so your talent would be wasted there?”

  “I—I didn’t say that, either,” I stammer. “And that’s not a fair question. The girls on that team are skilled and driven.”

  “So why don’t any of those girls play on the boys’ team with you?”

  This guy is past the point of annoying. I don’t care for his leading questions—it’s like he’s trying to back me into a corner so I say something I don’t mean. I won’t let him get the best of me.

  My heart pounds as I answer his question as best I can. “I can’t speak for the girls on the team. I can only speak for myself. I earned my place on the boys’ varsity team, and that’s where I intend to stay.”

  The minute the words come out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I meant to sound confident and persistent, and instead I came off as arrogant and condescending. Great.

  He changes tack, thank God. “Your parents must be very supportive, what with four kids playing hockey.”

  “Absolutely. They’ve encouraged me every step of the way.”

  “Your dad, Marcus Delviss, led the Halcyon Hawks to the state tournament twenty-five years ago this March. I’ll bet he’s your biggest fan.”

  “He’s one of them, for sure. I’m grateful for my parents’ support and their belief in me.”

  “And your brother Carter,” Fink continues, “captain this year, is following in the footsteps of your oldest brother, Hunter, who was also captain of this team and now plays for Northern Lakes University. Those are some pretty big skates to fill.”

  “Co-captain,” I say. “Carter is co-captain this year.”

  Fink ignores me. “And what about your younger brother, Jesse? Where does he fit into the equation?”

  “Jesse’s a Delviss. He’s been skating as long as he could walk, like the rest of us. He plays JV. Jesse’s very talented, and I’m sure he’ll be captain one day, too.”

  “Does it bother you that your dad, your two older brothers, and predictably your younger brother will all wear that captain’s C, but your jersey will go without?”

  “What are you saying? That I can’t be the captain of my team because I’m a girl?”

  “Well . . .”

  That gets my hackles up. “That’s ridiculous. The captain role is a leadership position, determined by a vote of your peers. Male, female, doesn’t matter, as long as you’re a strong leader, as long as you remember what that C really stands for—caring, courageous, consistent.”

  “So, you’ll be throwing your hat into the ring next season?” Fink asks, his lips twisted into a smirk.

  “Watch me.”

  And once again, I want to kick my own ass for saying something so stupid.

  “You heard it here, folks. Will ambitious, driven Holland Delviss earn a captain’s spot on next year’s varsity boys’ team? Stay tuned. In the meantime, Holland, I would imagine that it’s been challenging for your brothers over the years to see you in the spotlight, especially now.”

  “I wouldn’t say that I’ve been in the spotlight, exactly.”

  “You don’t think you get extra attention because you’re a girl?”

  “Are you suggesting that people have treated me differently because I’m female?”

  “Of course they have.”

  I’m getting hotter. “I work hard to get the puck in the net. That’s what wins games. The fact that I don’t have a penis makes exactly zero difference.”

  Fink nearly chokes. “Jesus,” he says under his breath, then recovers. “You don’t think that your opponents have treated you differently? You don’t think that maybe someone has made a move to check you and lightened up because you’re a girl?”

  “Do you think that those same opponents don’t look at my brother Carter, who’s basically a brick shithouse, and think, I’m not going to mess with that guy?”

  The guy behind the camera chuckles.

  “OK,” Fink says, “let’s loop around to a different topic. What about college? Are you planning to play in college?”

  “I hope to study journalism and communications at Hartley University in Duluth.”

  “Have you considered broadcast journalism, Holland?” he asks. “I’m impressed with your poise. The phrase grace under fire comes to mind.”

  “I play hockey, Mr. Fink,” I say. “I’m trained to respond quickly and instinctively in high-pressure situations.”

  “Will you play hockey?” he asks again.

  “I’d like to, yes.”

  “For the women’s team at Hartley?”

  “Yes.”

  “You aim to play women’s hockey in college, but you don’t want to play on the girls’ team now.”

  “I’ll try out for the team, yes. There are no guarantees in life, however, as we know.”

  “Seems a bit insulting, don’t you think?”

  Here we go again. “Insulting to whom?”

  “Other female athletes. Women in general.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not uncommon for a girl who plays on a boys’ team in high school to
go on to play women’s collegiate hockey. So, I don’t find that insulting at all. I do find this line of questioning insulting, however.”

  He sighs, the camera guy laughs again, and I’m pretty sure most of my interview is going to end up on the cutting room floor.

  “I heard you were a spitfire,” Fink says, then slips back into sportscaster mode. “HockeyFest Weekend is coming up before we know it, when the Halcyon Lake Hawks will face off against the Freeley-Simmons-Hammond Vikings on the recently renovated Hole in the Moon outdoor rink downtown. What about HockeyFest are you most looking forward to, Holland?”

  An easy question. Thank all the hockey gods and Saint Sebastian, patron saint of hockey players.

  “The game, of course. The opportunity to showcase an awesome community that values and appreciates the sport of hockey.”

  “And maybe an opportunity to prove that you’re a valuable member of the team and worthy of the captain’s spot?”

  “That’s my goal for every game.”

  “Any last words?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Refuse to lose. Whatever it takes.” Coach calls me into the guys’ locker room for a pregame pep talk while Archie, the arena manager, clears the ice after the JV loss.

  “This is it, people,” Coach says almost reverently. “We’ve got Twin Cities media here tonight. Holland’s already filmed her interview. Jason Fink may want to ask a few of you some questions as well. My advice is to remember who you are. What you stand for. What this team stands for. Don’t get cocky. Don’t tear anyone else down to make yourselves look good. Not anyone on this team, or the opposing team, or even the other HockeyFest teams vying for broadcast.”

  No one says a word. The guys almost seem subdued. I’m not sure what this feeling is, but it’s not the usual pregame excitement.

  “I saw Holland’s interview. I want you all to know that she represented her team beautifully tonight,” Coach says, and I startle a little. I didn’t even know he’d been nearby, and my mind spins with all the things I said that I shouldn’t have, all the ways my words could be twisted and misconstrued. “She acted with integrity and respect for every single player in this room, and a few outside of it. You should be very proud of your teammate, and I believe that you owe her a debt of gratitude for her efforts tonight, whether we’re awarded the broadcast or not.”