Breakaway Read online

  And then Mark’s dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Poor Mark. What good are your dreams when you’re worried about losing one of your parents?

  Kathy approaches, balancing a coke and two hot dogs. “You wouldn’t believe the lineup. Help me out, will ya?”

  I take one of the hot dogs off her hands. “Parker, you should lay off the pop.”

  “And you should get off my case.”

  I follow her out of the concourse. At the top of the exit, we wait in the stairwell for a stoppage in play. I tell Kathy about seeing Brittni Wade, and Kathy nearly chokes on a mouthful of her drink. I pound her back.

  “Brittni was nice to you?” she coughs. “Good thing I wasn’t around. She called me an f’ing puckhog, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  I fill her in on Brittni and Jamie’s career paths and wedding plans.

  “Never mind that,” Kathy says impatiently. “What else did you and Bud talk about?”

  This question is definitely not rhetorical.

  “Not much.”

  “Jessie, the SHA can make or break us if we need to get releases for players from other teams. You didn’t tell him about Whitney’s dad recruiting the Weyburn girls, did you?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I assure her. “Let’s go up to our seats already. I’m missing part of my first football game.”

  She winces at me, then turns and heads up the stairs.

  Speaking of firsts. If we don’t find a head coach soon, our midget season will be over before we have our first practice.

  Maybe moving up to AAA wasn’t worth the risk.

  – Chapter Two –

  Jessie, will you give Courtney a ride to the pool?” Mom calls from upstairs.

  I’m in the basement, packing my hockey equipment for tryouts. I’ve had everything laid out for weeks.

  “Sure!” I stuff a roll of sock tape in my helmet. “But I’m leaving right away!”

  Mom comes down the stairs. “Do you have time to pick up Pam?”

  “As long as she’s ready when I get there.”

  “Thanks, Jessie,” Mom says, heading back up.

  As I finish wrapping my skates inside my old black and gold Xtreme socks, I ignore the butterflies tickling my stomach, and the nagging concern about where we’ll get a new head coach. I try to focus on something else...like team colours. I hear we’re going to wear black and orange.

  “I’m taking my equipment out right now!” I heave my bag onto my shoulder and pick up the stick I just finished retaping.

  When I got my steering papers, Mom bought Sunny, my green Sunfire, from one of my old teammates. At first Dad wasn’t thrilled to have me driving, but once I started chauffeuring Courtney to figure skating, picking up groceries and getting myself to school and hockey practice, he saw the light.

  Courtney’s already in Sunny. My little sister has shot up this summer, making her nearly as tall as I am, even though she’s only going into Grade Six.

  “You called Pam?” I ask.

  Courtney nods and tucks her long, blonde hair behind her ears. She stares out the side window as we head west down Valley Street and turn right on Souris Avenue. I plug in my iPod and we sing along to Justin Bieber. Mom took us to see his concert in Saskatoon last year, and even though I said I wouldn’t like it, I found myself in the mosh pit, screaming along with Courtney and the rest of the tweenies.

  “I’m going to Regina next Saturday to buy back-to-school clothes,” I tell her as we pull into Pam’s driveway. “Want to come along?”

  “Can Pam come too?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  Courtney gets out, so Pam can climb in the back. Pam’s had a growth spurt too, though she’s not nearly as tall as Courtney. She has long dark hair and an upturned, freckled nose.

  “Thanks for picking me up, Jessie,” Pam says.

  On the way to the Leisure Centre, Pam and Courtney chatter about figure skating, which is how they met. When the topic shifts to school, Courtney slips into silence. Pam goes to a different elementary school, and she’s excited about going back because she’s got lots of friends in her grade.

  Lucky Pam.

  Courtney’s classmates fluctuate between ignoring and tormenting her, and now that the junior high has closed, she has three more years of catfights to look forward to.

  “Pam, are you playing volleyball this year?” I ask.

  “For sure,” Pam says. “What about you, Court?”

  Courtney rolls and unrolls the towel in her lap. “None of the Grade Six girls like it, so there won’t be enough to make a team.” Her voice wavers. “It’ll be like that every year until I get to the Comp, and by then, I won’t be good enough to make an Elecs team.”

  “Maybe it’ll turn out okay,” I assure her.

  “Yeah, wait and see,” Pam says.

  I park near the main entrance to the Leisure Centre.

  “I’ll pick you up in two hours,” I tell the girls as we get out of the car. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

  “Just text me when you want to go,” Pam says. “We’ll be ready.”

  “Wish I had a phone,” Courtney says.

  Inside the building, they turn right and walk towards the pool while I stare at the entrance to Spectra Place. The butterflies I’ve been trying to ignore are beating like crazy. It was great to start out last year with Sue and Marty as coaches. We hardly cared that Sue has no sense of ha-ha. We knew what to expect from them, and we had a great season. But Sue won’t coach a AAA team by herself.

  “If I could give up my day job and coach full-time, I’d do it,” Sue told us last June, “but coaching AAA won’t pay my bills.”

  Then there’s the matter of having enough talent to field a decent team. We’d be competitive if we still had Tara and Shauna. Shauna’s playing AAA in Notre Dame, and Tara’s doing the same at Balmoral in Winnipeg. Jodi Palmer’s not well enough to play AAA, so it’ll be Senior Ladies for her. The thought makes me feel suddenly old.

  Regina and Saskatoon don’t have tryouts for two weeks, but Weyburn and Swift Current are holding their camps this weekend. If Mr. Johnstone’s recruits from Weyburn don’t show up, we’re screwed.

  Inside the lobby Mrs. Johnstone is parked at a table, texting. Her laptop sits next to a stack of registration forms.

  “Hi, Mrs. Johnstone.” I dump my equipment beside the table.

  She finishes the message on her phone before looking up. “Hello, Jessie. All set for the weekend?” As usual her makeup is flawless. I wonder if her eyeliner is tattooed on.

  “You bet.”

  “You’re in Dressing Room 2.” She reaches into a box beside her and pulls out a plain white practice jersey with an orange Number 13 on the back.

  That’s my lucky number, the number I’ve been wearing for three years.

  “Here’s your schedule for the weekend.” She hands me a piece of paper.

  “How many girls are registered?” I stuff the jersey and schedule into a side pocket on my bag.

  “Twenty-eight.” Her cellphone chirps.

  My butterflies are at it again as I shoulder my bag and walk downstairs to Dressing Room 2. There’s no sign on the door yet, just a piece of paper with a large two scrawled in felt marker.

  But two isn’t the number occupying my thoughts. It’s twenty-eight.

  How many of them play defence, my little voice wonders.

  I open the dressing-room door.

  “My boyfriend gave me a Tim Horton’s gift card for my birthday,” Randi Hildebrand is saying.

  “What’s so bad about that? You love those iced cappuccinos,” Teneil observes.

  “Yeah, but the card had already been used. It had $15.38 left on it. He was regifting.” Randi examines the end of a long auburn braid.

  “Randi, you’ve only been going out with him for two weeks. Cut him some slack,” Kathy says.

  “You’re lucky you got anything,” says Carla Bisson. “I got squat from my old man.”


  “Jessie got jewelry from Evan for her birthday,” Kathy says, “and she says he’s not her boyfriend.”

  I dump my equipment on the floor and kick off my flip-flops.

  “You ever wear those earrings?” Kathy asks.

  I unzip my bag and start unpacking my stuff.

  “Pretty expensive,” Kathy persists. “Real emeralds, right?”

  I ignore her until the girls turn their attention to something else. There’re some new girls sitting in the corner, and I move over to introduce myself. I know what it feels like to be a newcomer. Two of them are from Radville.

  The third one is a lanky girl with broad shoulders and long brown hair. “Amy Fox,” she says.

  I know that name.

  Along with her size, Amy Fox has ridiculous skill. She was the goalie for the Wawota Midget boys’ team for two provincial championships. She’s never come out for female SaskFirst, but here she is, large as life, with her pads stacked in the corner.

  And a pop can in her hand. She spits some dark juice into it.

  “Um, that’s not allowed,” I tell her.

  She narrows her brown eyes at me.

  “I’m just giving you a heads-up,” I say. “Sue won’t like it.”

  Amy removes the tobacco plug from her lip and deposits it in the can.

  “Hey, Parker, who’re the players coming from Weyburn?” Carla calls out.

  Kathy lists their names.

  “And Whitney’s dad is sure they’re coming?” Carla asks.

  “Apparently they weren’t happy with the Gold Wings,” Kathy says.

  “The last thing we need is players jockeying for a better deal,” Carla replies. “We need girls who are committed.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about commitment.” Kathy’s tone is sharp. “When Steve left, you dumped us to play with the boys in Oxbow. Sue’s the only reason you’re here.”

  Carla glares at Kathy, but thankfully she doesn’t snipe back.

  Besides being Queen of the Penalty Box and our team captain for the last two years, Kathy was born without tact. Consequently, our dressing room can be a gong show.

  “Jodi says she’s trying out,” Randi announces.

  “Jodi’s not coming back!” Kathy sounds disgusted. “There’s no way Dr. Bilkhu’s clearing her to play.”

  “Fine. Don’t believe me then,” Randi says.

  Jodi? Here? The news is both exciting and disturbing.

  The door opens, and Whitney Johnstone storms in. She’s tall, with long black hair and darkly tanned limbs. Her dark brown eyes – with the eyelashes we’d kill for – are thoroughly pissed. She drops her equipment on the floor and kicks it twice.

  “Rough day?” Teneil asks.

  Whitney flops on the opposite bench. “They’re not coming,” she says.

  “Who’s not coming?”

  “The Weyburn girls.” She stares at the floor.

  “Will they come tomorrow?” Teneil asks.

  “Don’t you get it? They’re not coming at all.” Whitney bites off each word. “Easton told my dad she wasn’t comfortable committing to a team with an ‘ambiguous coaching situation.’ She’s been talking to Saskatoon, and they already told her she’s made the team. Bloor’s going to Notre Dame and Mackenzie’s staying in Weyburn.”

  “Did Easton and Bloor get releases?” Carla asks.

  “Dad says Weyburn’s going to contest them, same as if they tried coming here,” Whitney says.

  “What do you mean – contest?” Teneil asks.

  “If a team contests a release, the player has to sit out the first five games of the season and the team she’s going to has to pay a fine,” Carla explains. “Plus she has to miss any games those two teams play during the season and playoffs. The coach has to serve a suspension to start the season as well.”

  “But we were counting on them!” Kathy sounds pissed.

  “Maybe they heard we jump ship at the drop of a hat.” Carla’s tone challenges Kathy. “Run back to our boys’ teams.”

  “If the shoe fits,” Kathy says.

  “Whitney, your dad promised he would get us two goal scorers and another left-handed defenceman,” Randi says. “Now what?”

  “Never mind what he said.” Whitney picks at her gel nails. “It’s over.”

  “What’s over?” Teneil asks.

  “Our season! We’re done. Before we even got started.” Whitney wrenches off one of her sneakers and throws it across the dressing room.

  Kathy picks up the sneaker and wings it right back, nearly hitting Whitney in the head.

  “Hey!” Whitney exclaims.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “I didn’t think we were that bad. We won the league and provincials last year.”

  “Our league was weak. The better teams, like Swift Current, had moved up to AAA. That’s the reason we won,” says Whitney. “The only reason. We are going to suck.”

  “Nice to know where we stand with you,” I say.

  “What I think doesn’t matter,” Whitney says. “If we’re not one of the top four teams in the league, we don’t get an invite to the Mac’s Tournament in Calgary. And the Mac’s is where the scouts are.”

  “I’ve heard there’ll be more scouts at the Notre Dame tournament,” Carla says.

  The talk of scouts and what players are playing where and who’s got a scholarship to which university goes on and on. My butterflies turn into snakes.

  I make a point of being the first one out of the dressing room. I turn the corner and stop at the entrance to the ice surface, admiring the corporate boxes suspended above the stands and the big Bruin symbol at the other end.

  It’s the Big Time. A brand new arena. A brand new team.

  I hope we’ll be all right, even without the Weyburn girls.

  Whitney’s dad is leaning against the boards, wearing a black wind suit with orange trim, and talking on his cellphone. Hopefully he’s trying to score us another left-handed defenceman.

  Mr. Johnstone’s got personality to burn. That’s why he’s been successful in lobbying the AAA League and the SHA and recruiting sponsors. Corporate sponsorships will keep our costs down. On some AAA teams, parents have to ante up to $5,000 for their daughters to play.

  Still, I have a tough time liking Mr. Johnstone. He says all the right stuff, but I suspect the only thing he cares about is promoting Whitney’s hockey career.

  The Dream.

  Behind me, I hear skate blades on rubber.

  Kathy.

  “It’s gonna be a long season.” She sighs.

  I try to lighten her mood. “Things can happen. We don’t play a league game until the first week of October.”

  She stares at me like I’m stupid. “Jessie, we need talent. No offence – but we’ve got plugs on our roster.”

  “Parker, you’re talking about our friends.”

  “I know,” she says, “but it doesn’t change the facts.”

  I fasten one of the straps attaching my cage to my helmet. “Are we going on the ice or what?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll kill Whitney’s dad,” she says. “Hanging us out to dry like that. Making us think we have a chance to form a decent team.”

  “It’s not his fault. He can’t control what players do,” I say.

  Carla comes around the corner, her helmet tucked under her arm. She freezes when she sees Kathy, and her features harden.

  “Can’t you gals smoke the peace pipe?” I ask. “This is a lousy way to start tryouts.”

  “Parker has to go first,” Carla says.

  “Oh all right,” Kathy says. “Sorry about saying you’re not committed. My mouth runs away with me sometimes.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Carla says, “but no harm done.”

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “Just look at this rink.” Kathy steps closer to the glass. “Is this going to be an awesome place to take a shit kicking or what?”

  “These stands will be packed
with red-blooded Canadian boys,” Carla says. “All coming to watch your skinny white asses.”

  Mr. Johnstone puts his phone away and skates towards us. He’s actually an okay skater. He played some junior hockey back in the day.

  “Here he comes,” I say.

  “It drives me crazy the way he uses our names all the time,” Kathy says.

  “Hold me back. Please.” Carla opens the latch and swings the gate open just as Mr. Johnstone comes to a stop, spraying ice chips.

  He gives us a charming smile. “Jessie. Kathy. Carla. Have I mentioned I never would’ve considered a bid for a AAA team without you three on the roster?”

  “Every damn day, Mr. Johnstone,” Kathy says.

  He looks at her uncertainly then focuses on me. “Ready to strut your stuff, Jessie?”

  “Sure am, Mr. Johnstone.”

  “I hear you struck out getting Jessie a new D partner,” Carla says.

  He looks even more uncomfortable. “Things don’t always go according to plan, Carla. But I’m confident we’ve got a super crop of rookies.”

  “We don’t need rookies,” Kathy interrupts. “We need size and speed and experience.”

  “I got you the best goaltender in this part of the province,” he says. “That should help a lot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”

  He skates away.

  “That man’s got an ass that just doesn’t quit,” Carla says.

  “He is an ass,” Kathy says.

  “I’m warming up,” I say, stepping onto the ice. Carla and Kathy follow me.

  Sue and Marty appear in the players’ box, along with two Estevan Bruins. The boys are holding clipboards and taking instructions from Sue. I gather they’re going to be evaluating us from the stands. If that’s not enough, another Bruin is setting up a video camera at the concourse level.

  “The tape never lies!” Carla calls to me.

  The other girls trickle onto the ice, and Kathy leads us in our stretches and for the rest of the warm-up.

  When Sue blows her whistle, we move towards the players’ box and take a knee around her. Sue’s in her early thirties and is tall with short blonde hair. I don’t know when she finds time to work out, but she can easily out bench press anybody on the team, including Carla.