In the Net

I

   "What the hell am I doing here, Emma?"

   "You're trying out for the Keaton Heights hockey team," she said, giving me her signature "duh" look.

   I rolled my eyes. "Obviously," I said. "But why?" I stared down at the ice, at the gear-covered figures already whizzing back and forth across its surface. My fingers tightened around the cold balcony railing.

   "Come on, Jake," Emma groaned. "Don't do this again. You're the best player in Kirsten. Besides, you said you would..."

   "Stupidest move I ever made," I muttered. She ignored this.

   "Now go out there and kick some ass," she said. She shoved my sticks at me, giving me a good luck pat that was more like a push. "I'll be in the stands!" And then she was gone. I glared after her for a moment, then hoisted my bag over my shoulder and made my way toward the other end of the arena.

   The locker rooms were underneath the balcony, adjacent to the benches, and then the ice. I gave my name to the lady sitting behind a table at the bottom of the stairs, stereotypical hockey mom in a sweater and mom jeans. "Jake Foreman."

   She smiled at me and wrote it down. "Go on in, Jake," she said, waving me toward the doors. "Find a spot 'n get changed. You've got about a half hour."

   I tried my best to smile back, and then turned toward the doors. My stomach was flutteirng around wildly in my throat as I pushed through them.

   My nose was accosted with the combined smell of man-sweat and dirty socks. I found myself looking down several rows of bright red lockers, interspersed with worn wooden benches. There were guys everywhere, in various states of undress, and I tensed automatically. This was a bad, bad idea.

   I almost turned around and slipped back out the double doors, but then I heard them swing open behind me, and a gruff voice said, "You gonna block the door all day, kid?" I didn't stick around to find out who it belonged to. Instead, I scurried off along the first escape route I could find.

   I ended up in a bathroom stall. I struggled with the latch, and then, as soon as it clicked into place, I sat down hard on the toilet lid. My hockey bag landed with a too-loud plop on the floor next to me. Breathing a little harder than I should have been, I ran my fingers through my dark hair. How on earth had Emma talked me into doing this?

   Once I'd caught my breath, I stood and peeked through the crack in the stall door. I could just barely see out into the locker room. Okay, I thought. There's gotta be a way out. If I was quick enough, maybe I could just run out without anybody seeing me.

   But then I pictured Emma's face. "Come on, Jake," I could hear her say. "Remember what we talked about?" I sighed, remembering. "Strength and confidence," I said under my breath. She was right. I could've used a little more of both. "And you want this, don't you?" her voice in my head asked me. Hell, yeah, I did. I'd wanted it since age six. And that feeling--the ice gliding past under my skates, the weight of the puck in the crook of my stick, the speed of the chase, the crack of the shot, the rush when it slipped past the goalie and swished into the net... Was it worth it? Strength and confidence... Before I could change my mind, I pulled the stall door open and heaved my bag out into the fray.

   There were still guys everywhere. I kept my head down as I pushed through them, muttering "sorry" every time my bag whacked someone and searching for a bit of space to set up camp. Finally, I managed to find a little room at the end of one of the benches and set my bag on the ground.

   I glanced around. This was the hard part. All around me, guys were whipping off their T-shirts and jeans, exchanging their boxers for jock straps and wiener cups. I looked away quickly as a boy on the other side of the bench pulled his briefs down his legs. What, what, what was I doing?