Surf Camp

Chapter 1

Broken Up- A surf condition in which waves approach the beach and break apart into different peaks with a separation between the ridable shoulders.

The puck slided back and forth on the ice, the sound of hockey sticks hitting them filling the air. I yawned, uninterested.

My eyes drifted to the wording on the the net I was guarding. The words, Women's NHL, was emblazoned in red letters.

Dorks...

The defense on the other team easily deflected a shot headed their direction while the goalie butterflied.

I shiver ran through me and I rubbed my arms against myself for warmth, another yawn escaping me.

When will this be over?...

Just as the thought finished forming, a loud, obnoxious whistle filled the air.

Finally...

I sluggishly skated to the stands, tripping over my hockey stick in the process. I heard a few teammates snicker from behind me, and I forced down the urge to confront them.

"Why deny my lack of talent?" I mumbled to myself.

I plopped down with a thud on the stand, exhaling in relief. Just as I was about to lean back, strong hands gripped my shoulders from behind, making me jump.

"Jacklyn..."

"I sucked Dad." I answer, rolling my eyes.

My dad just happened to be one of the biggest monster gods of hockey. He was like, huge. Adult men fawned at him everytime we went to Benny's for groceries. And of course, he loved it.

All the fame and love came to him during his 98' Stanley Cup Finals run with the Kings, after he had stumbled on the ice following a miserable first period. It was 3-0 and it was game 7. Almost no chance of winning. There were only two more periods left. What happened next was a miracle. Following a Kings penalty, he charged through the Detroit Red Wings, obliterated their d-men and backhanded a shot at the net. They say the net almost ripped.

That laser of a shot gave the kings just the momentum they needed. In the end, the Kings took home the victory 5-3, and destroyed Red Wings' fans hopes and dreams. My father recorded assists on three of the four other goals.

Everyone went bazerk. People were laughing, screaming, cussing, tearing every article of clothing off. It was the day my dad made hockey history.

It wasn't an easy legacy to live up too.

With a large sigh he took his hands off my shoulders and rubbed his hands on his temple, something he often did in my presence. I crossed my arms.

Then, as if remembering where he was, or rather, who he was, gripped my shoulders again.

Here comes the pep talk again... And as if that helps...

"It's 1-3 Jackie, and they already have a power-play," he paused a moment to pop his gum loudly.

Is that like a method of intimidation?... Because if it is, it's not working-

"Lorie's all worried about that rookie of his and the defense is asleep. We jus' gotta hit 'em with some grit, that's all. Cross-check their first line players, rattle 'em. That's what's putting us off." he said in his thick Chicago accent, referring to Jeff Lorie, the other team's coach.

Cross-checking generally refers to any legal hit in hockey. Hitting is legal in the sport, but as strict as the NHL is about their hitting and the technicalities of it all, minor leagues in my town were basically a free for all. Check someone's head into the boards for all they care.