Breakaway Read online

  “Don’t you have volleyball practice?” I ask.

  Teneil gives me a smug look. “You talked to Kathy yet?”

  I sit down across from her and pull my calculus textbook out of my bookbag. “Want to help me study for my quiz?”

  She ignores my obvious ploy to change the subject. “Kathy’s pissed at you.” The only thing that seems to delight her more than this news is the fact she gets to deliver it.

  My heart quickens. “Is that right?”

  She leans across the table. “She told Miranda you got voted captain because you sucked up to the new girls.”

  “Hi,” a voice says.

  Amy sits down beside me, stuffing her knapsack and long legs under the table.

  “Hey, Amy.” I push my textbook aside.

  Teneil narrows her eyes at Amy. “No offence, Amy, but this is a private conversation.”

  “No offence, Teneil, but it’s not,” I say.

  Teneil glares at me. “Maybe you should think about who your real friends are.”

  “Maybe you should think about growing up.”

  Teneil picks up her stuff, swears under her breath, and stomps off.

  Hell hath no fury like a scorned hockey player.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy says.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  The other girls start drifting in a few minutes later. Kathy’s tight-lipped when she sits down across from me. Oh she is pissed, I think.

  Everyone steers clear of the topic of letters. Instead, they talk about mice. It seems Crystal’s parents are doing a major reno, and Crystal has been banished to the basement storage room, which is frequented by the little rodents.

  “It’s like living in a prison movie. I can hear them romping across the ceiling tiles at night. It’s grossing me out,” she explains.

  The Rookies offer solutions: poison, sticky pads, traps baited with cheddar cheese or peanut butter. Kathy watches the girls, more like a cat than a mouse. But there’s one person she’s definitely not looking at.

  Me.

  I need to do something. Right now. Before it’s too late.

  “Hey, Parker,” I say.

  She continues staring at Amy, who’s describing how rats are treated at her farm.

  “Parker,” I say louder.

  When her gaze meets mine, her eyes are little discs of blue steel.

  “I don’t know why the girls went the way they did.” My heart is hammering in my ears. “I voted for you.”

  I hope you don’t have to pay for that lie, my little voice says.

  “And I voted for you,” Kathy says slowly. “After all, I can’t vote for myself. But I never thought...” She pauses and clears her throat. “It sucks to get demoted.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I don’t agree with everything you say, but you’re still my friend. And I’ll need your help this year. Big time.”

  She nods once and lifts her lips in a half smile.

  We’re going to be okay.

  Then Whitney sweeps in, plunking herself down at the end of the table. She’s clearly got her gitch in a knot.

  “Hey, Whitney, what’s up?” Larissa asks.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “Looking forward to that rookie party this weekend,” Randi says.

  Whitney shrugs.

  “What? You’ve changed your mind about the big sleepover?” Crystal asks, clearly disappointed.

  Whitney shrugs again.

  “It’s just as well,” I say. “We can’t afford a bad night’s sleep factoring in for Game Two of that double-header.”

  Whitney shoots me a look. “I never said I was cancelling,” she says. Then she throws down the gauntlet. “Or, as team captain, are you telling me I have to cancel.”

  So that’s the bug up your ass, I think.

  Careful, Jessie, my little voice says.

  “I’m sure you’ll use good judgment,” I respond.

  Whitney launches into a description of her plans for the party, giving the girls directions to her acreage.

  Kathy catches my eye across the table and mouths,“Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I mouth back.

  –

  Before our home opener on Saturday, Bud, Sue and Mrs. Jordan hand out the new jerseys.

  “Hot off the press,” Bud says. “You girls wearing letters will have to tape up for now.”

  Black, orange and white, with a modified Oilers’ symbol on the front. We wear white for home games.

  Although their styles are different, Bud and Sue are a great team in the dressing room. Bud has a lifetime of experience coaching both boys and girls. He’s jovial, positive, and has a bottomless bag of hockey platitudes. We call them Bud-isms. On the other hand, Sue is heavy on strategy and sparing with praise. I’ve learned to pay close attention to every single word. If she says I played a good game, I know I did.

  Thursday night we had our first practice with Bud. Mom was so right when she said Bud runs a tight ship. When some Bruins showed up to help, Bud told them he could handle things on his own.

  It was hilarious to watch Whitney choke on that.

  Bud’s right about our need to work hard every practice. Swift Current finished in the middle of the pack last year, so playing them will be a great opportunity to see where we stand in AAA. Amy starts in net today while Miranda starts tomorrow. Of course all of us are hoping Jodi will be on her game, as she has been so far.

  “Do you think we’re going to have many fans today?” Crystal asks. She has to speak loudly so we can hear her overtop of Carla’s boom box.

  “Probably more than we usually get,” says Kathy. “Who knows?”

  When I step out onto the ice for our warm-up, a hundred fans are assembled in the stands of Spectra Place.

  “Definitely more than we got for our exhibition game,” I say to Carla.

  “Of course.” She flashes a smile. “We’re the big time now.”

  We’re used to playing in the LMC, so the noise and space and spectators are intimidating.

  We don’t have an auspicious start. When Mr. Parker tries to play the tape of “O Canada,” he has technical difficulties. Jennifer, Kathy, Randi, Jodi and I are waiting on the blue line, shifting from foot to foot. Eventually the ghetto blaster spits out three bars and a horrible grating sound.

  “Excuse me, but my machine won’t play this CD,” Mr. Parker announces. “Is there someone who can get us started?”

  “Go Jodi,” Randi says.

  Jodi looks at us uncertainly.

  “Yeah, go!” Kathy says. “My dad’s a brutal singer!”

  Jodi skates over to the timekeeper’s booth and exchanges her helmet for the microphone. The crowd is real quiet, and I get goose bumps, thinking about how lucky we are to have Jodi back on the ice.

  But as I stare at the flags hanging at the end of the arena and Jodi’s voice washes over us, I wish I’d gone to the bathroom one more time.

  I’m just nervous, I tell myself. The urge will go away as soon as the game starts.

  It does.

  Jodi scores two quick ones in the first period to put us up two zip. The Wildcats keep going glove side on Amy, and she keeps breaking their hearts.

  “This league’s going to be a cakewalk,” Jennifer says to me on the bench.

  “This game is far from over,” I reply.

  In the second period Swift Current takes a delay of game penalty, and Kathy scores on the power play. Later, Jodi puts one in, shorthanded. In the third, the Wildcats score two late goals, pull their goalie with a minute left, then watch in dismay as Whitney intercepts a pass and fires a shot into their empty net.

  We coast to a 5–2 victory, thanks to Jodi’s hat trick and Amy’s stellar goaltending.

  As I’m leaving the ice, I hear little people voices calling my name. I look up and see Breanne and Zack waving at me from the stands.

  “Hey, Short Stuff!” I pull off my glove, reach over the glass, and smack her palm. “How you doin’, Zack?�
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  He grins at me.

  “I’m babysitting Zackary,” Breanne informs me. “He’s Coach Prentice’s son.”

  “Grandson,” I correct her.

  “Where’s Courtney?” Breanne asks.

  “Ouch!” I exclaim in mock anger. “You don’t care about me anymore?”

  Breanne smiles shyly. “Yes, but where’s Courtney?”

  “I don’t know. She and Gia are around here somewhere.”

  Kathy gives me a little shove. “Let’s go!” she says.

  “See you, Short Stuff! See you, Zack!” I call out.

  Everyone is pumped in the dressing room. No finger pointing. No lip dragging. It’s awesome.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to tomor-row,” Jennifer says, hoisting her hockey bag onto her shoulder.

  “Awesome way to start our season,” Whitney responds. “2 and 0.”

  “Let’s not get cocky,” I warn her.

  “Whatever,” Whitney says. “Can’t we just enjoy the moment?”

  “Sure you can,” I reply. “Just don’t take this team lightly.”

  “Who said I’m taking them lightly?” Whitney looks around. “Did anyone hear me say that?”

  “See you guys tomorrow,” Jennifer says.

  “Aren’t you coming to my place?” Whitney asks.

  “I can’t. It’s my grandparents’ wedding anniversary,” Jennifer says.

  “You’re kidding.” Whitney turns back to Jennifer. “How’re we supposed to bond if we’re not all there?”

  “I can’t make it either,” says Amy.

  “Count me out too,” Jodi says. “I have church.”

  Storm clouds roll in.

  “I can’t believe this,” Whitney says.

  “Man, if everybody keeps dropping out, the Rooks are gonna outnumber us,” Kathy observes.

  “Are you coming, Jessie?” Whitney asks.

  “Somebody has to make sure lights are out by midnight,” I reply. “Hopefully there’s enough time to watch Youngblood.”

  “For the hundredth time,” Crystal groans.

  –

  I give some Rookies a ride out to Whitney’s place. She lives a few kilometres north of Estevan. As soon as I pull in her lane, the Rooks start oohing and aahing. The house is huge, with a three-car garage, and a motor home parked in the driveway.

  “Whitney must be rich,” one of them says.

  Mrs. Johnstone greets us at the door. “Hello, girls.” She ushers us into the foyer and talks excitedly about our win, then leads us upstairs to the rec room over the garage.

  “Wow!” a Rookie says. “A pool table!”

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Johnstone says. “Whitney’ll be right up. I think she’s straightening her hair. Doug and I are going out in an hour, but I think you’ll have everything you need up here.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Johnstone,” I say.

  She goes back downstairs.

  “Get a load of the jukebox!” another Rookie says.

  “I don’t think we’ll have time to watch Youngblood tonight,” a third one says, making straight for the table full of pizza, snacks and pop.

  I look at the food. “Go easy on the carbs and junk food, or you’ll play lousy tomorrow. Proper nutrition is critical to success.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replies, diving into a pizza box.

  Whitney comes upstairs. She’s decked out in makeup, jewelry and hair product – the whole nine yards.

  “Pretty fancy, considering it’s just us,” I tell her.

  Whitney pours herself a coke and plunks down beside me on the couch. “I’m the one scoring a hat trick tomorrow,” she says.

  “I hope you do.” I reach over the back of the couch and extend my glass. “More ice, Rook.”

  The rest of the girls filter in by eight o’clock. We’re so busy playing pool and air hockey we hardly notice when Whitney’s dad comes upstairs to say goodbye.

  “Nothing better than a hen party, right, ladies?” Mr. Johnstone asks. He places a tanned hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Great game today, Cap’n Jessie.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You ladies have fun,” Mr. Johnstone points a finger at Kathy and winks. “But not too much fun.”

  After he’s gone, Carla says, “I could show him some fun.”

  “Yuck,” Whitney says.

  Much to Crystal’s consternation, Kathy slips Youngblood into the DVD player.

  “When are we going to dress up the Rooks?” Crystal demands. “I brought bags of stuff from the Salvation Army!”

  “We’re got loads of time,” Kathy says.

  The Rookies park themselves on the floor while the senior players recline all over the furniture. When we’re halfway through the movie, a set of headlights swings into the yard.

  “Whitney, are you expecting somebody?” I ask.

  She doesn’t respond, and the room is too dark to see her reaction.

  “Maybe Amy decided to come after all,” Kathy says.

  Miranda yawns and stretches. “I hope not. I’ve seen enough of the Great White Hope to last me until tomorrow.”

  A Rookie runs to the window and looks out. “There’re two trucks out there!”

  Kathy pauses the DVD player. A vehicle outside revs, rattles and coughs – a vaguely familiar sound. Doors creak open and slam shut, interspersed with male voices and laughter.

  “Looks like we’s gonna have a few roosters in our henhouse,” Miranda says.

  – Chapter Twenty ­–

  Somebody turns on the lights, blinding us all. “Are they Bruins?” one of the Rookies asks, rubbing her eyes.

  “The Bruins are on a northern road swing. Everybody knows that,” Carla says.

  I squint over at Whitney. “You invited guys?”

  “I invited football players,” Whitney says.

  “Yowza!” Randi says.

  “How’s that supposed to facilitate team bonding?” I ask.

  “Who cares what you think...Captain Anal?” Whitney gets up and goes downstairs.

  “Captain Anal?” I look around at the rest of the girls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She means you suck the fun out of everything,” Kathy says.

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “Oh yes you do,” Randi says.

  I turn to Crystal. “Be honest, am I anal?”

  Crystal nods and bites her bottom lip.

  “How about – psychotic?” a Rookie volunteers.

  “Who asked you?” Kathy growls.

  The Rookies all sit there, wide-eyed, while the vets gather round and start barraging me with everything I’ve done to make their lives miserable for the past week. Apparently the list is pretty long.

  Then Whitney comes back up with five guys in tow, each of them carrying a twenty-four-pack of beer.

  The last one is Liam MacArthur. He low-fives Amy as he walks by.

  “Obviously you’re not injured anymore,” I say.

  He looks at me, surprised. “It was just a sprain, Hockey Girl. I didn’t know you cared.”

  Kathy crows as she cracks open a beer.

  “I thought we weren’t drinking tonight,” I say.

  “Lighten up, McIntyre.” Whitney takes a can from one of the guys. “It’s just beer. I told them not to bring any hard stuff.”

  “Beer or not, this still breaks Bud’s rule about drinking on a game weekend,” I say.

  “So you’re going to narc on us?” Whitney demands, sipping her beer. “I should’ve known.”

  I stand up and wipe my hands on my thighs. “I’m going home. Anybody coming with me?”

  The Rookies look at one another.

  One of the guys drapes an arm around my neck. “You should relax. Have a couple of beers. See what happens.”

  “No thanks.” I pull away and move towards the stairs. “Last chance, Rooks.”

  The Rookies start gathering their things.

  Kathy squawks like a chicken.<
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  “You’re wrecking the party,” Whitney says.

  “No, Whitney, you’re wrecking the party.” I reach for my jacket which is lying on the sectional.

  A brown hand grasps it first.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Liam holds on, forcing me to yank helplessly on the sleeve like a dog at the end of a leash. “If I’d known you were going to react like this, I wouldn’t have come.”

  “Right.” I take a deep breath, remembering my promise to Amy to be nicer to him. “Now please let go.”

  “Can’t we talk about this for a minute?” he pleads, releasing my jacket.

  “No. I mean – no thank you.” I’m trying to look very adult and self-assured. It doesn’t help that my right sleeve is turned inside out, and my hand won’t go in all the way. I start flailing like an idiot.

  “Let me help you with that,” he says.

  I see the leers the rest of the guys are giving me. Some things never change.

  I rip off my jacket and start down the stairs with the Rookies right behind me. When I realize I left the rest of my gear upstairs and stop, they pile into me, sending me flying.

  I bounce down the stairs.

  Carpet.

  Ceiling.

  Carpet.

  Ceiling.

  Carpet.

  I end up in a heap at the bottom, head throbbing, staring up at a sea of terrified Rookies. For some reason, there are twice as many of them. That’s when Carla and Kathy take over and push everybody back.

  “Give her some air!” Kathy says.

  Larissa manages to slip through. She kneels down and peers concernedly into my face. “How many fingers?” she says, holding up a blurry hand.

  Somebody starts demanding my mother’s maiden name. Somebody else insists I start counting backwards from one hundred. Kathy’s threatening to kick Rookie asses all the way back to Estevan.

  “I’m okay,” I say groggily. “Let me up.”

  “I don’t think she should move yet,” Liam says, pushing past Kathy. “She probably banged her head.”

  “Does anything hurt, Jessie?” Larissa asks.

  “My cheek.” I explore the tackiness with my fingertips.

  “Nobody’s ever died from rug burn,” Whitney says.

  After a couple of minutes Liam and Larissa pull me up and help me walk to the living room, where they make me lie down on the couch.

  “Should I call 9–1–1?” Carla asks from the doorway.