Breakaway Read online

  Sick.

  Howling, my teammates pile on top of Larissa while the Gold Wings move like members of a funeral procession back to their bench. There’s a yard sale on Oiler equipment all over the ice.

  Losers – them.

  Winners – us.

  “Where did you learn that move?!” I scream in Larissa’s ear. It’s not easy to find it under the pyramid of churning bodies.

  “You’re not the only one who watches the highlights on Sports Centre!” she shouts. “Ouch, you guys!”

  –

  At practice on Monday Bud gives us five minutes to bask in the glory of our win.

  Then it’s all business. Notre Dame business. We’re playing the Hounds in the next round, and they’re still undefeated this year.

  We have the best practice we’ve had all year. Even Whitney executes the drills the way she’s supposed to.

  After practice, I’m hauling my equipment to my car when I hear Whitney call my name.

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks. “It’s important.”

  Therapy. I should hang out a shingle.

  “Sure.” I hope she makes this quick. It’s starting to snow.

  “Will you give me a ride home?” she asks.

  I want to refuse. I’ve got a couple of hours of homework ahead of me.

  “Please?” she begs.

  There’s hardly room in old Sunny for one bag of equipment, much less two, but I fold down the back seats so we can stuff them in, along with our sticks.

  She doesn’t say anything until we’re out of Estevan.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she says.

  I adjust the setting on the windshield wipers.

  She doesn’t say anything else for a while. We’re nearly at her turnoff before she blurts out, “I know you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Whitney,” I reply.

  “Well, you should. I’m the one who told Teneil you got drunk at the rookie party.” She tucks her hands under her thighs. “I didn’t actually tell her. I just let her draw her own conclusions. She wanted to believe it. She was mad at you and everyone else because she didn’t make the team, and she was jealous of you for being voted captain.” She pauses for a few seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me expectantly.

  “What about Jodi?” I ask. “Did you let her draw her own conclusions too, or did you out and out lie to her?”

  Whitney starts to cry.

  I don’t say anything more. I’m not going to make it easy for her.

  “I never thought she’d go and quit!” she says at last. “I was so jealous of you. But I didn’t think Bud and Sue would find out. If I’d known all that stuff was going to happen, I never would have said anything.”

  I keep on driving.

  “I probably should have owned up to you and the rest of the girls a long time ago.”

  “You got that right,” I say.

  She pushes her head back and stares at the ceiling. “But if you already knew, why didn’t you tell everybody?”

  “We got our coaches back. That’s the only thing that mattered.”

  Whitney sniffs loudly and swipes her fingers under her nose. “I am such a loser,” she says.

  We drive in silence for a few seconds.

  “Start thinking like a leader,” I tell her. “Next year you’ll have lots of opportunities to choose between the high road and the low road. And any time you’re not sure, the high road is always the best choice. Understand?”

  “I think so,” she says.

  By now we’re stopped in her driveway. Snow settles on the windshield in large lacey flakes, sliding and melting. I reach for my door handle.

  “If I ever get to be captain, I’ll try to be as good as you are,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’ll miss you next year,” she says.

  “I’ll miss you too,” I lie.

  – Chapter Forty-eight –

  Whitney’s dad charters a bus for Game One against the Hounds. A real bus. With a bathroom and everything.

  When we head out of the rink parking lot on Tuesday after school, we are all sure we’ve finally hit the Big Time.

  Crystal reaches between the seats and jiggles my arm. “Remember the time we went to Davidson on the Beastie Bus, and we lay on our equipment to keep warm and squished our helmets?”

  “Yeah.” I lean my head against the window, trying not to get emotional.

  It brings back an image of Amber Kowalski, redfaced, trying to jam on her lid. We all howled when we figured out what had happened. “Head cases,” we called ourselves. I feel a little pang, thinking about Amber and how much she would’ve enjoyed this year. Or maybe she’d have been miserable, riding the pine and watching the Rookies take her place.

  “Do you know if Amy’s starting?” Crystal asks, sliding into the empty seat next to me.

  “Not a clue,” I lie. I plug in my ear buds and pull down the brim of my toque. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Maybe you should too.”

  Crystal goes back to her own seat and leaves me to my thoughts.

  –

  Predictably, we play like scared rabbits against the Hounds. Bud starts Miranda in net, but it’s clear her ankle is bothering her. She lets in four goals in the first period and limps off the ice afterward.

  Amy shuts out Notre Dame for the final two periods, in spite of the fact we play most of those forty minutes in our own end. They outshoot us 41–15.

  And the big goose egg on the scoreboard above Guest is a bitter reminder that many teams haven’t scored a single goal against Notre Dame this year.

  “If Bud had started Foxy in net, we’d have stood a chance,” Randi whispers in my ear as she loosens her shoulder pads.

  “We had to put the puck in the net, and we didn’t,” I whisper back. “We can’t win if we don’t score.”

  –

  When we suit up against the Hounds two nights later at Spectra Place, we get our biggest crowd yet. Some football players come, but I don’t see Liam.

  Momentum has a lot to do with a singular act. A goal, a great save, a blocked shot, a brilliantly executed PK – all these things can get the ball rolling.

  And sometimes, an old-fashioned body check can do the trick. Especially when the players are really big.

  Number 15 is a monster of girl with a mean streak. Her shoulders mash our faces into the glass. Her elbows punish us in the corners. Her stick hammers our wrists and ankles.

  Number 15 is coming across the ice with her head down, and Carla catches her in full stride, and they both soar through the air, parallel to the ice. It’s a spectacular hit, and as we revisit it again and again in the dressing room after the first period, hoping Mr. Parker caught it on video.

  “Betcha 15 never thought she’d be flying Air Bisson,” Randi says.

  –

  We’re down by two goals when we head into the second. The Hounds come out flying, but Amy keeps us in the game, stonewalling them at her crease.

  We play better full strength than we do on the power play. We can’t generate any trash around the net when Notre Dame’s PK units are on patrol.

  Late in the second, Carla drives in a shot from the point, and we go crazy. It’s the first goal we’ve scored against the Hounds since December.

  We claw tooth and nail to keep the score close until midway through the third period.

  Then the wheels start to fall off.

  It’s not Amy’s fault.

  We screen her on one goal and leave her high and dry, 2–0, on another.

  At the end of the game, it’s 4–1, and we have one more chance to keep our playoff hopes alive.

  On Saturday afternoon.

  A very slim chance.

  –

  On Saturday morning, Mom and I hit Highway 39 early, headed to Regina, on the hunt for my elusive grad dress.

  “We’ll be in the city by nine thirty.” Mom slurps coffee from her travel mug. “That gives us a
t few hours. Do you think you can find something in that time frame?”

  “I’m not fussy,” I say. “If it looks good and the price is right, I’m buying the first dress off the rack. I don’t want to burn myself out before the game this afternoon.”

  She takes another sip. “Did you remember your heels?”

  I reach behind the seat and heft a shopping bag. “I can tell you one thing. This is the last time I’m strapping these on. Courtney’s welcome to them.”

  “You got yourself a grad escort yet?” Mom asks.

  “I’ve got one in mind.”

  “Have you asked him yet?”

  “Don’t push me. I’m working on it.”

  Once we reach Regina, we head straight downtown and find a parking spot on Scarth Street. There’re a couple of bridal stores in this part of the city, and we spend an hour in the first one. Although the store isn’t that busy when we get there, more and more clientele drift in.

  Competitive clientele.

  As soon as I pass over a potential winner, a shark behind me snatches it off the rack.

  In the second store I find a dark green, strapless, mermaid-style gown that looks fabulous in the dressing room. I pull my hair to the side, trying to imitate the look I had for Brittni’s wedding. This could be it.

  I push open the door and lift the dress, so I don’t trip on the hem or my heels, and make my way out to the area where my mom should be waiting. But she’s not there. I walk to the railing and look down and spy her by the storefront window. She’s got her back to me, and she’s talking on her phone, and from the position of her shoulders, I know something’s wrong.

  I stare at her, wondering if I should go down or wait here, like a mermaid stranded on the beach.

  After a minute, she pulls the phone away and stares out the window. Finally she turns around and raises her eyes.

  What is it, I think.

  Who is it?

  She tucks her phone into her purse and fords the river of girls circulating between the racks. She slowly climbs the stairs and puts her arms around me.

  “I just talked to Sue,” she breathes in my ear. “Your game’s been canceled.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s Bud,” she says. “He had a heart attack at home this morning. They took him by ambulance to the hospital.” She pauses. “He died on the way. I’m so sorry, Jessie.”

  She squeezes me tighter, but it doesn’t hurt because I already feel like all the air’s been sucked out of me.

  – Chapter Forty-nine –

  Bud’s death hits me hard. He’s a sweet man I didn’t know as well as I should have. I didn’t know he played Major Junior with the Blades back in the day. Or that he played on a senior hockey team that won the Allan Cup. Or that he taught high school math for over thirty years. No wonder he talked so much about angles. Worst of all, I didn’t know he had a heart condition.

  A raw March wind buffets our vehicle all the way to Holy Rosary Cathedral in Regina. The Oilers meet in an anteroom to put on our jerseys. Everybody’s eyes are red and watery.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Dayna says as I adjust the collar of her shirt. “How can we play Game 3 without Bud?” she asks.

  “We can’t talk about Game 3,” I say. “Not today.”

  Whitney’s sitting in the corner, crying her eyes out. “Why didn’t I pay more attention to Bud during practice?” she sobs. “I should have listened more.”

  Miranda sits down next to Whitney and hugs her and sings to her, just like she did for that stupid robotic doll back in September. Strangely, it soothes all of us. Amy sits on the other side and wraps her long arm around both of them. She doesn’t sing, but she sways along with the song. She catches me staring, and she gives me a little smile.

  I suddenly feel like crying again, but it has nothing to do with Bud.

  Sue walks in. She’s wearing a black silk suit, shirt and tie. Her short blonde hair is styled, and her makeup is perfect. Her eyes are dry.

  We all stare at her.

  Say one thing to make us feel better, I think. One little thing to help get us through.

  “Tough day,” she says.

  She outlines how we are to behave – no sudden outbursts, no leaving the sanctuary once the funeral has started. No drawing attention to ourselves.

  “We know this,” I say when she’s finished.

  “Good,” she says. “As horrible as you’re feeling, imagine how it is for Bud’s family. Show some respect.”

  When the door shuts behind Sue, Miranda says, “Did anybody else feel a chill just now?”

  “She’s handling it the only way she knows,” Amy says. “Let it go.”

  The church is packed with Bud’s friends and colleagues from hockey, the Saskatchewan Hockey Association and his teaching career, with former students and players. My eyes are filmy as we walk into the sanctuary as a team, following Bud’s family. I blink away the tears and curse my dripping nose. Somebody from the congregation reaches out and touches my hand, but I don’t know who it is because I’m looking straight down.

  Bud’s daughter delivers the eulogy and manages to get through most of it before breaking down. There’re some funny and tender bits in there. Bud was quite the prankster when he was with the Blades, and the story of how he met the love of his life moves us all. The priest’s homily offers us comfort, and he even addresses us directly towards the end.

  “Bud would want you girls to play with pride and passion,” the priest says. “If he were here today, he would tell you: don’t hold back. Break away from fear and doubt. Trust yourself and trust each other. Be the players and the young women you were born to be.”

  The internment afterwards is private, so we go back to the anteroom to take off our jerseys and pick up our jackets. We’re going to the Cathedral Free House Café for a team lunch, then driving home with our families.

  As soon as I walk out of the room, I see him.

  Steve Brewer. My first hockey coach.

  It’s been two and a half years.

  He’s talking to some people I don’t know, and he doesn’t see me. It doesn’t matter. I go straight to him, butting between him and the others, and I put my arms around him, burying my face against his jacket. I’m going to get snot all over it, but I know he won’t care.

  “Hey!” He cradles my head in his huge hands and pulls it back so he can see my face. “It’s Big Mac,” he says.

  I can’t even croak out a single word.

  He lets me hold him for a couple of minutes while I sob and shudder. He leans his head on mine and strokes my hair and doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t need to. When the shudders finally let go, he fishes a Kleenex out of his pocket and hands it to me.

  “Better?” he asks.

  I nod and blow my nose, repeatedly.

  He produces another tissue and wipes his own eyes. “Bud coached me in minor hockey,” he says. “He was the best I ever had. I always tried to model myself after him.” He turns piercing blue eyes on me. “I hope I came close.”

  I finally find my voice. “Yes, you did.”

  “I’m glad,” he says.

  “Do you want to come for lunch with us?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I have a plane to catch, and I want to make sure I spend some time with Bud’s family. It’s been great seeing you, Jessie. I just wish it had been under better circumstances.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I tell him. “It means a lot.”

  “We had some good times, didn’t we?” he says. “I’ve been following the Oilers’ website. You’re doing great for your first year of AAA. I always knew you and Parker and Bisson would put Estevan on the map.”

  “We all put Estevan on the map,” I correct him.

  “Yes, you do,” he says.

  That’s when the old Xtreme girls come over and get their share of hugs and head rubs. I drift back over to my family, who are waiting patiently.

  “I have to make a phone call,” I say. “
Then I’ll be ready to go.

  Dad puts an arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Sure, kid. We’ll wait in the car.”

  When my family’s gone, I turn on my phone and step in the anteroom. It’s empty now. I scroll through my contacts until I find Liam’s name. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say, but I have to say something.

  He doesn’t pick up, but fortunately, he has voice mail.

  “Liam, it’s Jessie. You told me once you were giving me your number, just in case I ever needed you again. Well, I need you now. Maybe you heard about our coach. It hurts so much, Liam. We’ve got one game left, and it’d mean a lot to have you and Russell there. And even if you can’t make it, maybe you could give me a call, and we could get together and talk. Please.”

  I hang up.

  – Chapter Fifty –

  The Notre Dame coach calls Sue and offers to play Game 3 at Spectra Place. “I know you’ll want to honour Bud, on your home ice,” she told Sue.

  At least she doesn’t state the obvious. We’d never beat the Hounds in Game 3, not if we played it a hundred times.

  “Maybe they’ll be nicer to us than they were last time,” Jennifer says as we wait in the hallway beneath the stands while the zamboni finishes its flood.

  “I could file down that cast so it fits inside your glove,” Kathy says. “We could use you today, McQueen.”

  Jennifer shakes her head. “Sorry. I wish I could play.”

  “It won’t be the same without Bud,” says Amy.

  “It sucks.” Whitney reaches through her cage and digs a tear out of each eye.

  There’s hope for this girl, I think.

  “Think Gia’s dad will be any good?” Miranda asks. “You’ve been on the bench with him.”

  Gia’s dad is helping Sue today.

  “He knows his hockey,” I tell her. “Look who’s here.”

  “Hey, guys.” Teneil squeezes between Kathy and Miranda. “I’m sorry about Bud.”

  Nobody says anything.

  “Even though I never had him for a coach, I know you all liked him,” Teneil continues. “It must be hard for you to play today. And for once...” She takes a deep breath. “For once I’m glad I’m not one of you.” She takes a Kleenex out of her pocket and blows her nose. “Sorry I’ve been such a bitch lately.”