Chapter 2 #2
We completed several more warm-ups before breaking out into skill development.
Coach pushed us through drill after drill until everyone was sweating beneath their equipment.
The entire time, I monitored my knee, waiting for a twinge of pain that never came.
By the end of practice, my blood was hot and my heart drummed in my chest. Right before Coach dismissed us, his eyes roamed over me with a gleam of something that looked like hope.
That alone sent me strolling toward the locker room with a sweet sense of vindication flowing through my veins, and I wasn’t alone.
There was a palpable sense of excitement amongst the other players as we showered and dressed for class.
Bryce settled beside me on the locker room bench, a knowing expression written across his face.
“It’s good to see you smile,” he said.
I looked around to make sure no one was listening. “No pain today,” I said, glancing down at my knee.
“You looked like you out there.” It was a simple statement, one that might not have seemed very meaningful from an outsider’s perspective. But something in Bryce’s words made me feel like myself for the first time since my injury.
“We’re doing a team breakfast in the dining hall before classes. Everyone get your asses moving,” Kent hollered.
Bryce gave me a gentle elbow to the side as he asked, “You coming?”
I shook my head. “Go on without me. I need a little bit longer.”
It was wrong of me to stay back, especially given my title of team captain, but I needed some time to myself.
I sat there for a while once the place emptied, replaying the practice over and over again in my head, committing it to memory.
For a few moments, it was enough to block out the ceaseless ticking inside my head, a clock that had begun winding down the moment I returned to school.
>> <<
Grace
Where Boston College was gothic grandeur and perfectly manicured lawns, DU was understated charm.
The campus was deeply entwined with the surrounding nature.
Each and every building had been overtaken by plants; vines extended over the cluster of stone structures in multitudes, expanding across the grounds in a vast network of greenery.
As fall approached, there came a shift: in a matter of days, the school transformed into an explosion of warm colors and fallen leaves, students strolling around in cozy sweaters as they made their way to class along pathways lined with red maples and white birch trees.
I felt at ease here, being in such a familiar environment.
It was a considerable difference from Boston, where people honked first and screamed second.
Clearly, I hadn’t realized how homesick I was until I was back in the Midwest. Who needed the ocean when you had the Great Lakes?
In the first few weeks of school, I’d settled into a comfortable pattern with classes and my roommates.
Despite being complete opposites, Lydia and Caroline complemented each other perfectly.
Caroline was intense, organized, and carried a sense of urgency in everything she did, while Lydia exemplified the term laid-back, spending her time drawing or scouring the local thrift shops for her next jackpot find.
What amazed me most was their dynamic on the ice.
It was as if they were capable of reading each other’s thoughts from across the rink.
Meanwhile, it was nearly impossible to get a text back from my sister.
Given that she’d spent most of the summer with her face glued to her phone screen, I assumed she was going out of her way to ignore me.
I was lucky if I got a thumbs-up or a one-word response.
No amount of update texts or funny TikToks seemed to pique her interest.
Feeling helpless in my effort to connect with her, I turned my full attention to the one thing with the power to distract me: hockey.
I could lose myself in the sport. Being on the ice gave me the ability to tune out my racing thoughts, even without the help of my wireless headphones.
But unfortunately, the replacement rink for the women’s hockey program was sorely lacking.
Nothing could have prepared me for the state of our training facility.
At first glance, it only seemed to be outdated.
But after several weeks of practice, I’d uncovered a plethora of issues that made spending almost two hours there every day feel like an impossible task.
Now, my one source of comfort left me more frustrated than relaxed.
The facility was located on the opposite side of campus, which happened to be a twenty-minute trek from where I lived in the Athletes’ Village.
While the earlier than expected wake-up call was manageable, at least for me (Lydia had to be dragged from bed every morning Freaky Friday style), the mile-long walk in eerie darkness was bound to feel unpleasant once the air turned cold enough to hurt your face.
I was also beginning to think that the facility was indeed haunted, despite Lydia and Caroline’s reassurances.
McKinley Rink creaked and moaned like it was inhabited by noisy spirits, and there was a strange smell of must and something slightly spoiled that no amount of air freshener could fix.
Anyone who knew anything about ghosts knew that strange smells signified a malevolent presence.
Worst of all was the refrigeration system for the rink.
Our first few days of practice, the ice had been so brittle it was nearly impossible to make a decent hockey stop.
But after several days, the building started to grow humid, transforming the rink into a choppy mess of snow.
Every morning when I arrived at practice, the fury inside me blazed a little bit hotter.
Today was no exception. The ice was in a rough enough state that our scrimmage had devolved into chaos.
I was convinced that either the thermostat had a mind of its own or the ghosts wanted us to suffer.
“Last shot!” Coach yelled, voice echoing across the rink.
Thankfully, Lydia took pity on us and slammed a shot that ricocheted off the side of the goal post. I had no doubt it would have gone in if the ice were in better condition.
“All right, ladies, let’s bring it in.”
All twenty-three players gathered around Coach Riley. She was a formidable woman built with lean muscle and teeming with endless hockey knowledge. Though I’d only known her for a few weeks, I liked her attitude and coaching style. We meshed well.
“We’re lifting heavy tomorrow. I want to see every single one of you with a foam roller before and after practice. Our first matchup is a week away, ladies, and I want us to be ready.”
My teammates were quiet as we set off toward the locker room to shower and change.
Despite my growing anticipation for our first game, all I could focus on was the fact that we’d had another lackluster scrimmage due to the state of our rink.
This team was great, but our training facility was holding us back.
We needed the best conditions to prepare for our upcoming matches.
“What’s that look on your face, new girl?”
Dena, who mainly went by Big D (I had yet to learn how she’d earned that particular nickname), was watching me from across the locker room, her right eyebrow raised in a questioning arch.
At left wing, she made up the final part of the forward line.
Caroline and a junior named Pearson served as our blueliners with Liv, another transfer student like me, likely to start at goalie.
“I’m struggling to wrap my head around the fact that we have to practice in this dump. How are we supposed to prepare for a game in these conditions? I’ve skated on ponds better than this rink.”
Mumbles of agreement broke out across the room. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one severely disappointed with our circumstances.
“I’ve already spoken to Coach about the issue. There’s nothing she can do,” said Caroline.
“I might go crazy if I don’t say something,” I admitted.
The look on Caroline’s face was clear; she knew exactly how the conversation would go and had little faith that it would do any good.
Lydia gave me an encouraging smile all the same. “Go easy on Coach, okay? It’s not her fault we’re stuck with this shitty rink.”
I waited for most of the girls to clear out before I knocked on the office door and entered.
The windowless room felt more like a closet that an office, the fluorescent light above head flickering as I slipped inside the tiny space.
Coach Riley motioned for me to sit down at the armchair in front of her desk.
“I don’t understand why we’re forced to practice here,” I said, the words spilling out of me before I could finish lowering myself into the chair.
“This place is a dump, and I’m not just talking about the ice quality; it’s the lifting equipment too.
Those machines are a day away from crumbling into a pile of rust.” The minuscule weight room in the basement of the facility looked like it hadn’t been updated in over fifteen years.
Most of us girls chose to train in the student gym that was accessible to non-athletes, even if it meant lifting at strange hours to avoid the crowds.
Coach Riley glanced down at her notepad, jotting something down on the paper.
I couldn’t tell if it was related to my complaints or if she was artfully avoiding my gaze.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, she finally met my eyes, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
Her expression told me everything I needed to know: this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have.
“I’m sorry, Grace, but this facility is the best we have.” She spoke slowly, voice low. It made me think she was trying to keep her composure.
I refused to give up so easily. “It doesn’t make sense. The men have access to one of the best hockey facilities in the country, which also happens to have two rinks. Why can’t they share it with us?”
She let out a dejected sigh. “I understand your frustration, but this matter has already been discussed with the athletic director and Dean Adler. They have inspected this facility and ensured that it provides all the same amenities as DuLane Arena.”
“And the extra rink?”
“Is apparently used by more than just the men’s team. They host student classes there and open it up to the public some days.”
In other words, it was more important to give the public access than the school’s female team.
I resisted the urge to bang my head against her desk. “That’s total bull and you know it!”
When we were on the ice and running drills, Coach Riley was a terrifying force to be reckoned with. But right now, there was not a single hint of that woman in the eyes staring back at me. If this was what giving up looked like, I didn’t want it.
“I wish things were different, I really do, but this is the reality of women’s athletics,” she said. “We’re overlooked, and our success is underappreciated.”
I’d heard it all by now: the men brought in more money, their games were better attended, people actually wanted to watch them.
It didn’t matter that the women’s team had a better record or that we’d won more national titles.
It didn’t matter that we had just as much of a chance at going pro now that the new women’s professional league was pulling in record attendance numbers.
“What if we put on a gala like the men’s hockey team does?
” I’d only heard about the party after practice yesterday, when Pearson had mentioned she would be attending with her boyfriend.
Apparently, the fundraiser brought in thousands for the men’s program every year. As if they even needed the money.
“That event is completely funded by alumni. If you can find a free venue, free catering, and volunteers to run the event, I’m happy to approve it. But we don’t have the money to host something like that.”
None of this was fair. Outside of throwing my head back and screaming like a toddler, I didn’t know how to react.
What would it take to prove we deserved as much support as the male athletes at this school?
At the very least, we deserved a facility with good temperature control and safe equipment. And one less likely to be haunted.
Lydia’s voice rang through my head, reminding me that it wasn’t Coach who deserved my anger.
Ignoring every muscle in my body screaming to fight, I shoved down my growing frustration and exited her office.
A few girls on the team had remained behind, eager to hear the outcome of our discussion.
They watched me stomp back into the locker room with wary expressions.
“I take it the talk didn’t go well,” said Lydia.
“Apparently both the dean and the athletic director think this facility is up to standards.” I couldn’t help the sarcasm drenching my every word.
“They’re men.”
“I told you.”
Big D and Caroline spoke at the same time, the latter reminding me that she’d been right. But there was nothing smug in her tone. If anything, she sounded bitter.
What an utter load of crap. If the administration at this school didn’t want to listen to Coach, to me, and to all the women who came before us, I was going to turn up the volume so loud that it blew out their eardrums.