Out of Play

Gary laughs, and I suddenly want to punch him in the face. I used to like him better than Don. “Such a grouch. Now get over here and help me with the bags.”

I take a step forward, somehow slip in the snow, and fall on my ass. Gary laughs harder.

I fucking hate Alaska.

Chapter Two

Pe

Adrenaline rushes through me as I fly behind the enemy’s goal with the puck in my possession. The screaming crowd barely registers over the sound of my breathing and skates against ice. This game could get us into the semifinals, and we’re so close to the end.

Ten seconds left.

I know where each player is—most of us have been on the same teams for years—and I can pick out any of the guys by the way they move on the ice.

I barely dodge the opposing center, and Mitch is weaving up the middle. He’s about to veer to the left and will be in front of the goal in perfect time. He just has to get around the defense. I’m watching out the corner of my eye as I keep the puck close. Mitch and I have more assists and goals than anyone else in the state, and that’s really saying something. There’s a lot of talent up here.

Okay. Focus.

Time slows as it always does when I’m moving this fast. Each push of my skate, each hit of my stick against the puck registers in my brain so I don’t screw up.

Five seconds left.

Just before number eight tries for a steal, I snap my stick and shoot the puck straight to Mitch who slams it toward the goal. Number eight rams me into the wall, forcing the air from my lungs, but I don’t tear my eyes from the net. The goalie reaches up and makes contact with the puck on the tip of his glove. I hold my breath until it falls just to the inside of the red line.

Despite my protesting ribs, I throw my hands in the air and scream as the buzzer rings. Number eight wasn’t fooling around. My side’s killing me. Mitch crashes into me for a hug, and the rest of the team mauls us.

All the shit I get from outsiders for being the only girl on the team is totally worth it for this.

…

“Pen-ny! Pen-ny!” the guys chant as I step out of the girl’s locker room. I love this—the high from the game, from the crowd, from my guys. My white-blond hair is still soaked from the shower, and my whole body aches. They were a rough team, and I wonder how many bruises I’ll have tomorrow. I shift my huge hockey duffel higher on my shoulder, sending another wave of pain through my left side.

“Party’s at Matt’s place!” Mitch tosses an arm over my shoulder, making me shift my bag again as we head for the door. He’d never insult me by asking to carry it. “You coming?”

“I’ll be there.” There’s a part of me that wishes the guys were online gamers or D&D nerds or something so I didn’t have to deal with the partying, but at least they’re serious enough about hockey to not get into anything major. They also don’t say a word when I take their keys.

“Heard back from Michigan yet?” His smile is wide, and his dark hair flops over his forehead. “Their women’s team is pretty hardcore.”

My chest sinks because even Mitch doesn’t understand that I really want to keep playing with the guys. I don’t want to go to Michigan. I don’t want to go to Illinois or Washington or Wisconsin. I’ve given up explaining that I actually do want to stay in Alaska and go to UAA or UAF, so I usually give the most non-committal answers possible. To Mom, to Gramps, to everyone because apparently they all have a plan for Pe

“Do you have to check in at home first?” Mitch asks quietly.

“Yeah. Mom’s working tonight, so I definitely need to stop by.” I love Gramps, and it scares me to leave him at home for too long. So far, his confusion hasn’t gotten dangerous, but I still worry. He was too tired to come to my game, and that doesn’t happen often.

“When’s your mom going to hire someone to stick around him?”

I can’t think about that yet. It’s too drastic. “Not until we have to. He’s had a lot of good days lately.” Even as I say the words, I know he’ll go downhill no matter what we do.

Mitch gives me a squeeze because he’s known me long enough to understand what I need. “Want me to do your check-in with you?”

“No.” I know Mitch would, but I also know he’d probably rather not. I’d rather him not because he’ll bring his girlfriend with him and watching them might kill my buzz from the game. I want to head straight to the party, even though I’m not a drinker. Someone has to be there to make sure the guys don’t accidentally kill one another playing some daredevil game while wasted.

“I’ll be keymaster until you get there, cool?” He gives me another squeeze.

“Thanks.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Mitch gets my need to keep our friends safe—even when they’re too shit-faced to give a crap either way.

I glance at the door where Mitch’s girlfriend, Rebecca, is scowling at me. Like she always does when I stand close to Mitch. She’s perfectly dressed and perfectly made-up with her tiny, curved body and perfectly smooth brown hair. The exact opposite of the kind of girl who could understand Mitch. Whatever.

He gives me a peck on the side of his head before dropping his arm and his bag and ru

The little pang of longing or loss or jealousy is brief, but only because I’m good at pushing it away.

“Good game, Jones.” Freddie and Chomps—well, David, but we all call him Chomps—slap me on the back as I step around Mitch and Rebecca who have just become a twisted-up mess of hormones in the doorway. Chomps is defense and about as big as you’d expect a guy with a nickname like Chomps to be. He and his girlfriend aren’t this obnoxious. It might have something to do with the fact that they’ve been dating since, like, eighth grade and are likely to get married within two months of graduation, but still.

“See ya, Lucky Pe

“Shove it, asshole.” I grin as I push open the second set of doors even though I’m not feeling it. The thought of losing Mitch makes it hard to breathe. I just need to get home and do my check-in so I can meet up with everyone, then I’ll be fine again. I’m sure.

The snow’s coming down hard, and there’s probably already a foot of the heavy, wet stuff in the parking lot. Good thing Matt lives close to me, because if he didn’t, there’s no way I’d drive in this mess just to watch the guys get trashed.

Bitty, my red truck, spins sideways out of the parking lot, and I give her a bit of extra gas just to kick up some snow and keep her sideways a bit longer. Once she gets traction again, I shove her in four-wheel drive for the trip home.

I flick on the radio to my favorite rock station and crank it up—anything to keep my high from the game for a while.

When I glance behind me, Chomps’s truck is on my tail, filled with guys, also skidding sideways and spraying snow. It sucks to have to check-in at home instead of riding with them. It’s bad enough I miss the locker room talk. Then again, they probably talk about girls whenever I’m not around, so maybe I should be glad I’m not there.