Chapter 13 Guaranteed Win Night
GUARANTEED-WIN NIGHT
CLEO
GUYS! I CALL OUT TO THE ROOM AS WE’RE GETTING READY FOR OUR HOME GAME. WHO eliminated us from the playoffs last year?
Portage! A few players call back.
Yes! So, who are we getting revenge on tonight?
Portage! More people shout.
Fucking right, I yell.
You’re extra fired-up tonight, Woolly comments when I sit down beside her to pull on my gear.
You bet your ass. We’re going to beat Portage and take first place. And Marjorie Schultz is going to watch us do it.
You mean that rich lady you’ve been visiting? she asks.
Yeah. My answer is muffled as I pull on my jersey.
Isn’t she in her eighties? I hope she’ll be okay in the stands, Woolly says. Tight games can get a little rowdy, and tonight’s will be a close one.
It’s fine. Mats made arrangements, and she’ll be sitting in a special box. Well, Mats contacted Barb Peachy, who is laying out the red carpet for our guest of honour.
Becks, who is sitting on the other side of me, butts in. Wait. Mats is coming to our game too? You never told me that part.
I busy myself with straightening my jersey. It’s no big deal. A hockey player is watching a hockey game. Happens all the time. Well, maybe not a member of the Mustangs watching us. As Mats said, we usually have games at the same time. Also, most of them can’t be bothered.
Becks slides closer to me with her shit-eating grin. Uh oh. You know, I’m adding one plus one and getting something huge.
I hope it’s two. I cross my fingers, hoping that she’s not about to go off.
She holds up her forefinger. One, you have this supposedly innocent sleepover at Marjorie’s house. And even before that, you say you don’t hate Mats anymore, although I still don’t understand exactly why.
I told you, I got used to him. He’s a nice guy.
A nice guy with an amazing physique and the best smell of anyone I’ve ever slept with—even if all we did was sleep. But the best part was Mats’s concern with my comfort level. How ironic that his reassurances that I was safe with him made me want to jump him?
A second finger goes up. Two, you force me to take you emergency underwear shopping this week, even though you never gave a shit about your crappy underwear before.
I lean back. There’s no stopping Becks when she’s on a roll.
She waggles her eyebrows. Nellie, are you planning on having sex? Her high-pitched squeal carries across the room.
Nellie’s having sex? With who? demands Jinx.
I’m not having sex, I protest.
Gilly yells from across the room, Nellie has a boyfriend? How come I never heard about this? It’s headline news.
Headline news because I am famous for my disastrous dates. My longest relationship at Monarch lasted about a month and ended spectacularly with a hurled plate of spaghetti.
I don’t have a boyfriend, I declare firmly. Maybe if I say it loud enough, we can drop the subject of my love life.
Fine, who’s your non-boyfriend, then? Gilly asks.
I sigh loudly. Once I release his name into the den of wildcats that make up our team, there will be no end to the teasing.
Roy Matsumoto, announces Becks, because apparently, I took a millisecond too long.
Her big reveal is met with a chorus of whistles and hoots of approval.
And he’s at our game tonight, she adds, before I can stuff a hockey sock into her mouth.
I thought he was dating Lana Hillier, Brit, a freshman defender, says.
Keep up. They broke up back in January, Jinx tells her.
Brit squints, as if calculating how someone could fall from Lana, the top of the Monarch dating chain, to me.
He’s not my boyfriend, I protest once more, but it’s useless. My teammates are now discussing how hot Mats is and what he might be like in the sack. I fucking hate my life.
You better sleep with one eye open tonight, I snarl at Becks.
She just laughs. Pfft. You’ve pranked me so much that it’s not even close to even. Besides, there’s nothing you find more motivating than having someone from the Monarch men’s team at our games. It’s a guaranteed-win night.
I can’t deny this, but it happens so rarely.
Our captain will be busting her ass to show off for her boyfriend, Jinx declares.
Yeah, so keep up, guys. I might as well turn this fuckfest to my advantage.
Then Burty walks in, and it’s time to focus on the game. She’s an awesome head coach. She was a tough-as-nails defender in her college days. She gives me a ton of freedom out on the ice, so when she tells me to do something, I follow her directions to a T.
Tonight is my favourite kind of game—tight, close-checking, and played on the edge. Portage are talented and dirty, exactly the kind of team I love to beat.
After two periods, the score is tied, 3–3. I’m going hard every shift and yelling advice and encouragement whenever I’m on the bench.
Go, Jinx. You got this, I urge when she’s slowing her pace.
Brit, man on, man on, I warn as she goes back for the puck.
During pauses in play, I check on Marjorie, who’s sitting way up high.
She’s wearing a purple pantsuit with a white down coat, the Monarch colours.
She’s flanked by Barb and Mats. They seem happy up there, but a win would guarantee that Marjorie gets to experience true hockey happiness.
I skate out for my shift. We’re at the next-goal-wins stage of the game, and I want to make damn sure that we score.
It’s a defensive zone draw, and I’m lined up against the big Portage winger who’s been hacking away at me all night. She shoves her shoulder against mine and mutters, You’re going to have a few bruises later, Nelson.
Time for a little trash talk. No fucking kidding. That’s what happens when you have the puck, but I guess you wouldn’t know.
Oh, fuck you. She gives me a dirty slash across the ankle, but my taunt distracts her enough that I’m first to the puck when Gilly scrambles the draw.
I pass the puck back to Woolly and move towards the neutral zone.
Portage are pressing for the go-ahead goal, their defence pinching deep and their forwards forechecking hard.
There’s a scramble beside our net and players collide, and suddenly there’s all this open ice in front of me.
Woolly, I scream, and she sends the puck to me. I’ve got a breakaway and I tear down the ice, completely focused on where to shoot on this Gigantor they have in net. Then there’s the scrape of skates behind me. A desperate player takes out my feet and I’m suddenly lying belly-down on the ice.
A whistle sounds, and I scramble up in time to see the ref pointing towards centre ice.
Sweeeeeeet. A fucking penalty shot! The crowd screams in excitement. This is the shit I live for.
I glide to the bench, where everyone wants to give me advice, but I only listen to Burty, who tells me to shoot top corner, glove side. I skate in a slow circle to where the puck is waiting on the dot. Then I realize—this could be a money goal.
I stop behind the puck, poised and waiting for the ref to whistle me to go. Then I lift my stick and point it right at Marjorie. This one is for you.
Tweet. I go in fast, knowing exactly what I’ll do. I can see the goalie’s eyes through her mask as she tries to anticipate my shot. A slight shoulder fake so she lowers her glove, and then I pounce. My shot sails up and over her shoulder.
Red light. Goal. Fuck yeah.
The roaring crowd is even louder now. I skate to the bench for hand slaps and hugs. Once I’m seated, even the coaches give me shoulder taps.
Becks slings an arm over my shoulder. Clutch is back! You’re such a fucking hot dog. I can’t believe you dedicated that goal to Mats.
Fuck no. That was for Marjorie, I insist. But it turns out my teammates think I’m exactly the kind of sappy girlfriend who would do that. Nobody believes that we’re not even going out. What is Mats going to think when all this gets back to him?
We manage to hang on to the lead. Even though it’s my time to shine, I rush to shower and dress so I can talk to Marjorie. She has a pretty early bedtime and it’s almost 10:00 PM.
Nellie, Jinx calls out. You have a gentleman caller.
What the fuck are you talking about? I ask as I jam my stuff into my gym bag.
He’s waiting in the hall. With a present. She’s smirking.
Of course, this has the whole team stampeding to the door to look out, even the half-dressed ones. Since I’m ready, I shove my way through the crowd. Mats is leaning against the wall. He looks gorgeous, dressed in his varsity hockey jacket and jeans. And he’s all alone, no Marjorie.
Hey. Are you waiting for me? I ask.
Yeah. Nice game, he says. Then he lifts one hand and presents me with a bunch of red carnations wrapped in cellophane.
Oh. Wow, I stammer. I have never received flowers from a man in my entire life, and I’m not sure what to do. I sniff them, and they smell spicy. Or maybe that’s Mats’s expensive cologne, which has been haunting my dreams.
Thank you, I finally mumble. But how did he know I was going to score the winning goal?
He peers at me. Um, you know they’re from Marjorie, right? I think she confused a hockey game with a ballet performance.
Oh, sure, I knew that. My attempt to sound casual would be better if my voice hadn’t squeaked. Fine, so I can’t cross getting flowers from a guy off my bucket list yet.
I can hear my teammates hooting and hollering behind me. I raise my free hand to throw them the bird.
When the chant, kiss, kiss, kiss, goes up, I say, Let’s get out of here.
Sure. Mats seems completely unembarrassed by all this. He is so chill.
We walk down the hallway.
Does it bother you that they think we’re going out? I watch for his reaction, but he only looks puzzled.
Who? Your team? Is that what you told them?
I shake my head vigorously. Of course not. But they assume the worst.
He raises an eyebrow.