Chapter 39 – Jordan
THIRTY-NINE
JORDAN
We win the next day against Michigan State, and follow it up with two more wins the next week.
It finally feels like we’ve shifted our trajectory, glimpses of the championship team showing.
Coach changed up the lines and threatened us with ballet lessons to work on flexibility, but everyone opted for one of Elliot’s Pilates classes instead.
I’m leaving one right now since Coach cancelled morning skate. Mat rolled up and slung across my back. I’d texted Xanie to see if she wanted to come, but she didn’t respond.
Walking outside the student rec center, a breeze rustles my hair.
Everyone raves about a Northeast fall—and while I’m not disagreeing that there’s something picturesque about it, I firmly believe the Midwest’s is better.
It’s almost mid-October and summer doesn’t want to relinquish its hold, fighting off winter for as long as it can. Leaving us with crisp mornings, warm middays, and cooling afternoons.
Weather aside, you have the county fairs and festivals—downtown Bensen’s is coming up soon. Pumpkin patches and apple picking.
I know I complained about PSLs conquering territory that belongs to summer, but I love fall here. I love the bite in the breeze, the crunch of leaves, and it always means hockey is back.
We’re a few weeks into the season and our record is…okay, even with our recent wins. We’re playing better, but not up to the caliber that is expected of us, including myself.
It’s hard not to blame myself for the team’s performance. Ponder what if I weren’t on the team or am I the reason our lines aren’t gelling or how many more games, maybe periods, do I have left till I’m benched or cut?
I’m one mistake away from it all being taken away.
And what does that prove?
Nothing? Everything?
That the AD was right to drop the women’s team? Luka’s jeers weren’t merely insults but facts?
I keep my head high, show up to practice and games with determination to give it my all. Dad used to ask us after games, win or lose, if we left it all on the ice—that and if we had fun, but I was ten and everything was fun then. How could it not be when there’s no pressure?
After every practice and every game, I leave exhausted. Muscles aching from depleting everything I’ve got out there. When I’m running on empty and dig deep to find more, do more, be more.
But it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
And that in itself is exhausting.
Sutton runs by, her curls camouflaged among the foliage, and finger waves at me. A bright and inviting curl to her mouth. It breaks me out of the icy fortress my brain can become.
I’m about to pass the student union when I hear a chorus of laughter. Some familiar, ones I used to hear ricochet off cubbies before a game or practice and at team dinners.
Near the fountains, I spy my previous teammates. I look for Xanie, but she isn’t here. Instead, I spot Paige, who I was probably closest to besides Xanie, sitting at the furthest table eating an apple. I pivot, heading her way.
As I get closer another chorus rings out, but instead of the vivacious and lighthearted giggles, it’s sardonic and…mocking.
I take out one of my headphones, the most recent playlist Jaxon sent me instantly pauses. So does my heart. The breath I just took settles heavy in my lungs.
“I can’t believe she went out for the men’s team.”
“And for what? To lose? Be the worst one out there?”
“She has to be sleeping with one or more of the guys, right?”
“Has she scored yet? I mean a goal?”
“I wonder what Coach Lang thinks.”
“Did you see her on the second line last night? Chokkkkkkked.”
“Let’s be real, never should have been first line on our team.”
I try to tune them out, but can’t. The rest of the world fades in a blur as they—people I considered teammates and “friends”—continue to talk about me.
The taste of iron coats the inside of my cheek from biting into it too hard.
I don’t know what to do. I’d leave if I could move, but my feet are sunk into the brick walkway. Someone momentarily changes the subject, but like a boomerang, I return to the center of conversation.
“Sorry, I’m late.” The voice distinct, splits me in two. “Good news! We got approval for the kissing booth.”
“We’re one person short to fill the timeslots.”
“Jordan can do it. I’ll ask her tonight after her game. Is everyone coming?” Xanie asks.
They’re all probably telling Xanie no, but I don’t stick around to find out.
I play terribly that night.
When the buzzer went off, clock at zero, I was happy. Couldn’t get off the ice any quicker.
Coach’s post-game speech went in one ear and out the other, my head overrun and drowning in what happened earlier.
I couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything other than stare at a chipped part of paint on the mural in the men’s locker room.
Like a zombie, I moved to the women’s locker room and stripped down.
Disappointment.
A joke.
Worthless and pathetic.
Should hang up her skates.
I don’t know if this is how I feel or if I’m predicting what they’ll say the next time my former teammates hang out without me. An invite unsent, my presence unwanted.
This was a mistake.
Cooper drove me to the arena, but I left before he was done showering. Motioned to Sutton in the lobby that I was going to walk. She hugs me but I stand there lifeless, features frozen.
Outside, I’m halfway down the street to the left of the arena. Feet pound on the pavement, someone hooking my arm to brake. A breathless Xanie pants to catch her breath, using me as a crutch.
Between slowing breaths, she tries to convince me it’s just a game.
But it’s not.
“I’m okay, Xan,” I assure in my most convincing tone.
“Jord—”
“Go on. I know you have plans tonight.”
“But—”
“Go,” I cut her off again, a faux smile on my face.
“Okay.”
As soon as she’s gone, I finish walking back to our suite. The weight of today, this season, and who I am has me crumbling beneath it. Years of unshed tears, tied up in a web of lies I’ve convinced myself are true pour out of me.