Chapter 4 – Jordan
FOUR
JORDAN
Fear polluted most of the questions my teammates submitted—most of them repetitive. Information passed around me like one of those scenes in movies where the main character is in slow motion or frozen, the world zips around them in blurry moments.
From the moment I climbed out of my sporty SUV and found university employees exchanging the banners hanging on lamp posts leading up to the arena and peeling off the life-sized vinyl of us clinging to glass panels, I dreaded our team meeting.
Somehow I thought this was a bad dream.
It’s not.
I couldn’t wait to leave, jamming the notebook and pen I used to take notes for Xanie into my bag, chest compressing with each unsatisfying and disappointing conclusion.
Afterward, absentmindedly, I find myself at The Pond. Taking Coach Lang’s suggestion. My movements are stiff, aggressive to a point. Flinging open the metal doors, cool air rushes over me, consuming my flushed and frustrated body.
The Pond is one of my favorite places on campus—one of my favorite places in the world. It’s shared between the men’s and women’s hockey teams—used to be, I correct myself sarcastically—and the figure skating teams.
I make my way down to the ice, letting myself into one of the players’ benches.
The bag slung over my shoulders collides with the metal and I snort a humorless laugh at the loud clank.
Are these new? Glancing around, I find myself skyrocketed from the eighties when the space was originally built.
Here’s our team’s money. I quickly get my skates out.
Unlacing my sneakers, I trade them for my tried and trues.
Guards off, I emerge on the ice. After twenty years of skating, its muscle memory. Each glide is like breathing; I do it without thinking. Moving around the boards, I wake up my body because I guess I should unrust my Lutz and Axels.
Lacking a toe pick and a much shorter, curved blade, I’m trusting my hockey skates won’t lead to a broken ankle. Because that’s exactly what I need right now.
My first landing is wobbly. I shake but maintain my balance.
Exhaling, I repeat the movements. Taking off in a forward motion, I push off on the outside of my dominant foot—this is where I should be rolling forward onto a toe pick, but I make do.
My left leg swings forward simultaneously with my arms, initiating the spin.
Lifted from the ice, I drag my arms and legs in tightly.
My speed increases as I complete one-and-a-half revolutions, then another.
A backwards landing is next, and I concentrate. My left skate connects with the smooth ice, and I extend my arms and right leg to help balance.
No wobble.
No mistakes.
A smug smirk tugs at the corners of my mouth. I sort of despise how accomplished I feel, but fuck it feels good.
I practice a few other moves before the painted lines on the ice become unbearable. What am I doing? This isn’t me.
Images of sequined costumes in a rainbow of colors scroll past. Weigh-ins and judgmental stares nitpicking my appearance—judges would love my blue hair.
This isn’t me, I tell myself again.
My inner critique is eventually drowned out by Luka and a replay of the other day. All I can hear is him telling me I’m not good enough. That girls aren’t good enough.
At the bench, I rip through my bag to grab the cones tucked into one of the side pockets of my bag. Skating along, I space them out. Some close together, some far apart.
Then I start at one goal zone. Zipping across the ice, through the cones, to the other side. And I repeat that, over and over again, until my heart is one beat away from thrashing out of my chest, and I can feel sweat trail down my spine.
I rearrange the cones. Tightening the spaces between them, I know it’ll challenge me to cut and weave through them. Then do it all again.
Most male hockey players, potentially every single one, are larger than me. Height and weight included; unless anyone has met a five-foot-five, one-hundred-forty-pound male hockey player. I haven’t.
If I’m going to beat them, I need to be quick, increase my agility to get around them…because that’s what I want—wish—I could do.
The idea scratched the back of my mind during my fight with Luka. I almost blurted the idea to Xanie that evening when we ate takeout on our couch, rewatching old seasons of One Tree Hill, but how am I supposed to join the men’s team? Walk up to Coach Mathieson and demand a spot on the team?
The door to the men’s locker room flings open.
I stop, skates sending ice shavings upward. Turning over my shoulder, panting, I see the last person I’d want to see. The only person who is able to consistently get under my skin.
Jaxon Greene is cataclysmic.
Immediately, the energy in the atmosphere changes. There’s a pulse, an electricity that sends a shiver across my shoulders and down my spine. Jaxon is the opposite of me; he doesn’t suck the energy out of the room. He is the energy.
He’s loud and impulsive. Lacks concern for the space around him, and is as unserious as one could be. Where there’s fun, Jaxon isn’t right behind, but in the center, making everyone smile and laugh.
He’s also my brother’s devastatingly attractive best friend. The kind of beauty that has you doing a double take. Questioning if they are pretty or not. It’s not something you see at first glance, but once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And unfortunately for me, I saw it years ago.
Messy light brown hair that’s longer on the top, with fading bleached tips starting to curl. Limbs long and ever-so gangly, as if he’s never fully grown into his body despite the muscles layered onto his bones. Cut, carved, chiseled.
Painted across his face, pulling at the skin on his clean-shaven, sharp jaw, and cheeks that give him a boyish charm, is his classic smile. Lopsided, one corner of his mouth reaches higher than the other.
His corded headphones are, of course, in his ears. Probably playing music loud enough that I’ll be able to make out the song in—nope, three seconds.
Summer is still in full swing in Wisconsin, but that has never stopped Jaxon from wearing shorts that showoff his thighs and cropped shirts all year round.
There’s a pair of sweats draped over his shoulder, which I assume are to skate in.
No one is stupid enough to be out here in only shorts.
The temperature in The Pond is a striking difference from the outside.
I came here in a pair of black leggings and a matching sports bra. The oversized sweatshirt absorbing my chilly sweat was tied around my waist during our meeting. Two more layers stuffed in my bag and an extra pair of gloves in case I need them—I usually run cold.
Jaxon doesn’t notice me, so I pretend not to notice him and go back to the cones till I can’t skate anymore, almost tripping. That’s the problem, I can’t not notice him.
“This is a closed practice,” I huff out, catching my breath.
His gaze circles the rink—the very empty rink. “Is it?”
The playful way he bites his lip and arches a brow almost reels a groan out of me.
It’s tactful and cocky and so annoying. Jaxon’s always been able to play me like a fiddle, knowing exactly how to push my buttons, and the unfortunate part is that I like it.
My icy demeanor or reputation for being mean has never fazed him.
“Yes.”
“Well.” He gestures to the cones behind me with his chin. “Good thing you won’t know I’m here.”
“Because you’re the quietest person I know.”
“Most girls dig that, you know.”
“I don’t.”
“We’ll see about that.” He positions a speaker on the board. “I’ll take that side.”
“You really want to share?” I eye him closely and watch him skate backward.
“Share you? Nah. The ice? Yeah, I could do that.”