Cold Day in the Sun Read online

  Too bad it’s me and not some dipshit like Dylan Rogers.

  A sampling of remarks from my classmates: Matt Sullivan: Well, well, well. You and Hot Sauce. I gotta tell you, I didn’t see it coming.

  Beck Bailey: So, Millard’s lighting your lamp? (I reply with a whack on the arm and, “You are such a basketball player. Is that the best you can do?”)

  T.J. MacMillan: Didn’t realize that Hot Sauce was doing a little cherry picking off the ice, too. (Said in front of Carter, who slams him into the locker bank and tells him to fuck off while I roll my eyes.)

  Livvie MacMillan: I could have given you some pointers on keeping a relationship under wraps, Holland. What, you lasted a week without someone finding out? (She has a point.)

  Miracle Baxter: You and Wes are the cutest. (I hug her.)

  Justin: What the actual fuck, Holland. I tell you everything. You’re banging Hot Tamale and you don’t tell me?

  Me: Oh my God, Slacks, I am not banging Wes.

  Justin: You’re calling him Wes now? You traitor.

  Me: Justin.

  Justin: You hurt my fucking feelings, Princess, and now you’re calling him Wes? And did you just call me Justin?

  Me: Justin. Come on. We didn’t tell anyone!

  Justin: Carter knew. Jesse knew.

  Me: He came to my house to pick me up for dinner! How could they not know?

  Justin: Still.

  Me: Stop being such a drama queen about this.

  Justin: Hey! I resemble that remark!

  Me: Look, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. What can I do to make it up to you?

  Justin: Oh my God, talk about drama queen. I’m just yanking your chain, Princess. I retweeted that little photo of Lumberjack’s and I got about seven hundred new followers, thank you very much.

  Me: Seven hundred?

  Justin: OK, maybe seventeen.

  I find Jack in the cafeteria and yank him out of the lunch line. I drag him by his sleeve out of the caf and into the hallway by the gym.

  “Take the photo down.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Take it down!”

  “No!”

  “It’s sexual harassment.”

  He laughs. “Whatever. It’s not.”

  “One-on-one training, Jack? Take it down.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me? I’m not taking it down.” He laughs and walks back into the caf.

  Later, I hear from Miracle that an hour-long conversation with his parents, Ziegler, Handshaw, and Giles and a day of in-school suspension convince him.

  No matter what anyone says, no matter what those haters on social media posted before Jack took the photo down, only one person’s opinion matters.

  And he’s not talking to me.

  My only consolation is that he looks like shit, like maybe he lost as much sleep as I did. His hair looks like it’s been through the ice resurfacer a time or two, and his beautiful brown eyes are shadowed and dull.

  My consolation and my regret.

  Wasting Light: A Blog About Music, Hockey, and Life

  February 7 10:14 p.m.

  By HardRock_Hockey

  Even Peruvian Carbs Can’t Help Me Now

  Now Spinning: Chris Cornell, Higher Truth

  (because if I’m going to be miserable,

  I might as well be extra fucking miserable.)

  Hello, Hard Rockers.

  Remember that post a couple of weeks ago where I said I’d never felt heartbreak? Well, I’m feeling it, and it’s my own damn fault. I’ll just set this here for your enjoyment or your misery or whatever.

  HARDROCK_HOCKEY TOP 10: HEARTBREAK

  10. “A Heartbreak”—Angus and Julia Stone

  9. “It Must Have Been Love”—Roxette (I can’t help it. I love Pretty Woman.)

  8. “Nothing Compares 2 U”—Sinead O’Connor. And Prince.

  And Chris Cornell. My heart breaks even more when

  I hear that voice, I miss him in this world so much.

  7. “Black”—Pearl Jam

  6. “Careless Whisper”—Wham!

  5. “November Rain”—GNR

  4. “Wicked Game”—Chris Isaak

  3. “Fade to Black”—Metallica

  2. “I Remember You”—Skid Row

  1. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn”—Poison

  “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” That’s where it began.

  And that’s where it ends.

  m/

  19

  Comments turned off for this post.

  Hunter: If you won’t let me comment on your blog, I’ll text you. Take your hits and listen to your sad shit but then get up off your ass and take another fucking shot, Holland. Also. Fucking Roxette?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in.

  One more game until HockeyFest.

  Wes has not spoken to me since he dropped me off Monday night. Not at our game Tuesday night or yesterday’s practice. Not one word. Not even to yell at me when I missed a gimme shot on Nik.

  He moved to a different table at lunch.

  Coach talks to me before the game on Tuesday night.

  “Look, I don’t need to know any of the details, and honestly? I don’t really want to get involved in your personal life, Holland, but you have to understand, this is new for me. I’ve never really had to worry about my players—uh, getting involved with one another before. We talked about this at the start of the season, and I trust you to make the right decisions. I need to know that, uh, your, um, relationship with Wes isn’t going to affect your level of play.”

  I gritted my teeth. “No worries there, Coach, because Wes and I don’t have a relationship. He’s my captain. That’s all. We’re not even friends.”

  He let out a long exhale. “OK, OK. That’s good to hear. I mean, I’m sorry you’re not friends. Anymore.”

  He pulled Wes aside for a private conversation not long after.

  Now, I’m on the bench after the national anthem, my knee bouncing up and down. I grab one of the water bottles and shoot water into my mouth.

  “You OK?” Carter says on his way out to take the opening face-off. “I mean, I know you’re not OK, but are you at least OK enough to play?”

  “I’m fine,” I murmur. I don’t know that it’s true. We’re in St. Christopher Lake, enemy territory. There’s nothing saintly about these goons, some of the scrappiest and most brutish in our conference.

  My first shift out, my legs shake with nerves for about five seconds, but there’s something about the feel of the ice beneath my blades, the loosening of my joints as I skate, the contentment of being in the right place. My home, even when it’s not home ice.

  There’s something else tonight. Indignation. Determination. The need to prove that I don’t need Wes Millard. I don’t need him at my lunch table and I don’t need him here. I don’t need anyone.

  I get caught up in a battle for the puck with two SCL players behind their net. One of them jabs his elbow into my side repeatedly. That seems par for the course, but then the other guy gets in my face.

  “Slut,” he says, and I’m not sure that I heard him right until he opens his mouth again. “Saw that picture of you and Millard. When you’re done sucking all the dicks in your own locker room, why don’t you come spread your legs for us, bitch? We’d all fuck you.”

  Holy. Shit.

  I shove him as hard as I can and kick the puck out of the fray, up to Luke, who misses it, letting me down yet again. The guy who mouthed off to me takes the puck into our zone, but the dumbass is offside, so we get a whistle. Number 18. Coach motions for a line change, and I get over to the bench as quickly as I can.

  “You OK?” Wes asks as he hops over the wall onto the ice.

  Fuck. He’s ignored me all week, but now he decides to talk to me again?

  I nod, and he skates off.

  “Delviss!” Coach waves me over. “What was that about?”

>   I take a deep breath and think about what I’m going to say, all the while keeping one eye on the ref, who’s about to drop the puck for a face-off. It’s not like I don’t know that this kind of crap happens every single day to women everywhere, whether they play a sport with men or not. I’m not naive. But before now, I’ve never been spoken to like this, not on the ice, not anywhere. Sure, I’m frequently called a bitch, and there have been plenty of other stupid comments: Nice tits. You should be a cheerleader because you’re too pretty to play with this bunch of ugly losers. I’ve had guys ask me for my number. But nothing, nothing like this.

  I tell Coach, word for word, as quietly as I can. My voice breaks.

  I won’t cry.

  “No.” His eyes narrow and his face flushes in anger. “Not OK. I will not allow that type of behavior.”

  He calls for a time-out as the ref’s about to drop the puck and signals for the three officials to come over. Carter and Wes skate over, too.

  Coach waves his hands around and points his finger in the ref’s general direction, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. The ref shakes his head. Coach fires back. This goes on for another minute or two. The officials skate off, and when Coach returns to the bench, he is not happy, his mouth pinched tight, his face even redder. He slams the door closed and hits a bottle of water off the ledge into the wall behind us.

  “Goddamn it,” he mutters.

  Wes circles in front of me like he wants to say something, but he must change his mind, because he skates back to the face-off circle. Carter comes over to the bench, leans across the ledge, and grabs my arm. “We’re going to take care of this,” he says.

  “I can fight my own battles,” I say. “I’m not going to let some shithead keep me from playing the game that I love.”

  My comment feels loaded, even to myself.

  “We know that you can fight your own battles, Holls,” Carter says, “but you don’t have to.”

  I glance at the scoreboard. Three minutes, eleven seconds left in the first period. No score. SCL has the puck and they’re putting a lot of pressure on Nik in goal. He catches a shot in his glove and hangs on to it until Showbiz circles back around and picks it up, deftly passing it up the zone to Carter, Carter to Wes, who one-times it straight into the goal before the SCL goalie knows what’s happening. The few Hawks fans in the stands cheer, but they’re drowned out by booing. The guys celebrate on the ice and then skate to the bench. For scoring the only goal of the game and putting us up before the end of the period, Wes doesn’t look pleased. He steps into the bench and slams his stick down.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” he mutters, and I can only imagine what’s going through his head.

  Two minutes to go in the period, so I’ve only got one more shift to skate, if that. I watch the play on the ice, watch for my cue, stand up for the line change. And then I’m out on the ice, and somehow, I’ve got the puck on a breakaway, and I can hardly breathe I’m so nervous and exhausted and oh my God, if I can score this goal, I’ll show that shithead how girls play hockey, and I’m still alone when I skate closer to the net, and I lean in, give my wrist that little flick, and fuck yes if that puck doesn’t fly right into the top shelf.

  I sail past the net to regroup and celebrate with my teammates, but before I can change direction, I’m slammed hard into the boards from the side, and the butt of a stick goes into my ribs, and my breath is gone, and I fall onto the ice.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When you’re done sucking all the dicks in your own locker room, why don’t you come spread your legs for us, bitch? We’d all fuck you.

  I lean over and throw up into a plastic trash can.

  The break between periods is over. Coach and Carter have gone back to the game. I’m in the locker room with my parents and SCL’s medic, a gentle old-timer who checks me out and tells me I should probably get my ribs X-rayed. At that, my mother runs a hand over her eyes.

  “But she just threw up again,” Mom says, like I’m not there. “Do you think she has a concussion?”

  “I didn’t hit my head,” I say.

  “You collapsed to the ice.”

  “I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t black out. I don’t have a concussion.”

  “Carolyn,” Dad says and puts a hand on Mom’s arm. It’s the first thing he’s said. He looks shaken.

  “But she threw up!”

  How do you tell your mother that you’re throwing up because you’re so disgusted by what someone said to you? Disgusted, and sickened, and so wrecked by it.

  “I knew this would happen someday,” she mutters, and I glare at her.

  “Mom, I’m fine,” I tell her.

  The old-timer opens his mouth, and I expect him to agree with her. “You’re good,” he says. “I’ve been watching you. You didn’t deserve to be targeted like that. No one should have to worry about this kind of thing, I don’t care who or what you are.” He shines a light into my eyes.

  “Maybe the coach should let your players in on that bit of common sense,” I mumble.

  He shakes his head. “I hate to say it, and you didn’t hear it from me, but Coach Olson isn’t all that well-versed in common sense or manners himself.”

  “What did that boy say to you, Holland?” Mom asks.

  “Can we talk about it later and let—” I squint to read his badge. “Dr. Schmidt here finish up.” Good, he’s an actual doctor. That might alleviate my mother’s worry.

  “No signs of a concussion,” Dr. Schmidt says. “But keep an eye on her. Ribs seemed bruised but nothing more. Take her to the doctor if the pain worsens or she has any trouble breathing.”

  “Can I get back out there?” I ask.

  “Absolutely not.” Dr. Schmidt chuckles. “You’re a tough little nut, aren’t you? You can watch the rest of the game with your folks and take the day off tomorrow, OK? No skating. Lots of rest. You should be fine for Saturday.”

  I groan. “But—”

  “Don’t even think about arguing with him,” Mom warns.

  “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, Holland,” Dr. Schmidt says. “But tonight, you take care of yourself so that you’re able to play the HockeyFest game. I’m thinking about driving up to see it for myself.”

  I drop my head into my hands and wipe away the hot tears.

  I get dressed, and my dad, who’s waiting outside the locker room, insists on taking my gear bag out to the truck. “You’re riding home with us, and it’s not up for negotiation.”

  I shrug, too tired to argue. “OK.”

  “Mom’s up in the visitors’ section with the other parents,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”

  That I’ll negotiate.

  “No, I’d rather watch down at the glass. Plus, standing is more comfortable.”

  “You want some company?”

  I shake my head. I follow him down the hall; he keeps going into the lobby and I turn for the rink. I find an area against the plexiglass where there are only a handful of young kids, no one who’s going to bother me or give me any grief.

  My stomach twists with revulsion and disgust every time I think of what number 18 said to me, and that’s worse than the pain in my ribs. I try to follow the puck, but every time he’s out on the ice, I zero in on number 18 instead. He’s chippy and aggressive. He pulls a couple of penalties, but mostly, the refs don’t call him on his dirty play.

  I follow Wes when he’s on the ice, too. Always Wes. There’s a scuffle in my corner of the rink and when the ref blows his whistle, Wes notices me on the other side of the glass. He stares for a long second, his face stony, unfeeling.

  Shit.

  I miss him.

  He looks away first, skates over to the bench.

  The second period ends. I could use some coffee.

  I’m surprised when Rieland walks up to me at the concessions counter as I’m pouring sugar and cream into my cup. The only straws they have are the little black ones for stirring, so this should be interesting.


  “I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “What are you doing here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at an away game before.”

  “I live here,” she says.

  “You live in Saint Christopher Lake?”

  “I have to live somewhere, don’t I?”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you OK? That was a nasty hit.”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Come on,” she says, “I don’t want to miss the third.”

  I follow her up to an empty corner of the visitors’ section. We watch the play on the ice for a few minutes before she says anything else.

  “That guy targeted you, didn’t he?”

  No sense in denying it. “Yep.”

  “Was he hassling you before the hit?”

  “Yeah. He said some things.”

  “Is verbal harassment pretty common?”

  “I guess. I mean, guys say stuff to anybody, right? But I know that players have said things to me because I’m a girl. I get called a bitch a lot. Tonight was the worst, though.”

  “What did he say?”

  I chew on my bottom lip, debating whether I should tell.

  “Holland?”

  “He told me that when I was finished sucking my teammates’ dicks, I should come over and spread my legs for his team.”

  If Rieland is surprised or shocked by this, she doesn’t show it. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I feel like I’m going to throw up again.”

  She sighs. “Holland, I’m sorry. You told Coach Giles?”

  “He called a time-out and told the refs, but they didn’t do anything.”

  “Has anyone ever said anything like that to you before?”

  “Not that bad. Unless you count the shit my own teammate pulled.”

  “You mean the picture of you and Wes? The tweet?”

  “Yeah.” I swallow the heavy lump in my throat.

  “I didn’t see the photo before it was deleted, but . . . staff members were made aware of a cyberbullying issue.”

  Well, that’s fantastic.

  “I’ll bet when you decided to be an English teacher, you never imagined you’d be having this kind of conversation with a student, huh, Rieland?” I try to laugh, but it’s hollow.