“Jon,” my mom whispers urgently, which of course sends Dylan and me into fits of laughter.
“I’m just saying, the girl does like her pizza. It’s kind of impressive how much she can put back,” my dad explains, and I’m pretty sure that even my mom is wearing a faint smile at this point.
“What are you guys laughing about?” Jodie asks, entering the room and sitting back down at the table with a huge mound of salad, obviously trying to make her point.
“Nothing,” Dylan says as we all compose ourselves and get back to eating. Or pretending to eat.
There’s a moment of silence, and then my dad asks, in his most innocent voice, “So…how about pizza for dinner on Saturday?”
Dylan and I start laughing again, and Dad joins in, but one look from my mother and he coughs a little instead. Jodie is rolling her eyes and mumbling something about having to “live with complete Neanderthals” while picking at pieces of lettuce on her plate.
The rest of dinner continues as per usual with my mother reminding us yet again of the extra dinner portions, my father talking about something super boring, and Dylan stretching out his legs so that they hit mine in an attempt to annoy me. When I am finished (and I use the term here not to mean that my dinner has been consumed and that I am full, but finished in the sense that my mother will let me be excused from the table), I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and make my way up to my bedroom.
The rest of my evening consists of doing a whole lot of nothing, which is just fine with me as I have not been doing a whole lot of that lately. By 8:00 I’m already feeling tired, and although 9:00 is supposed to be my bedtime I finally just relent and get into my pajamas. After all, tomorrow I will have to wake up super early for the dreaded group project.
Only Kaylee Gifford would make us meet at 9:00 a.m. on a PA Day. (In case they call it something different where you are, PA is for Professional Activity, and a PA Day is a day off school.) Obviously none of us had other plans, like, oh, I don’t know…SLEEPING? But some kids just don’t live by the Kid Code. Now, I know there is not an actual Kid Code, but there are basic rules most of us just instinctively know we aren’t supposed to break. For example:
1. Group work should never start before 11:00 a.m. on weekends or PA Days. Obviously.
2. You don’t take off another kid’s hat, thereby exposing “hat hair.”
3. When you encounter another kid back-to-school shopping with his mom, you pretend you don’t see each other and never speak of it again. (Especially if you are in the underwear department.)
I mean, it’s kind of “Kid 101,” but apparently Kaylee missed the memo. Someone really ought to put this stuff into an actual printed handbook for the Kaylees of this world. If you’ve got some time on your hands, feel free to take on this project. Make sure that Kaylee gets the first copy.
I should have added something to that first rule of the Kid Code. Not only should you not schedule group work before 11:00 a.m. on PA Days, you should also not schedule group work before 11:00 a.m. on PA Days and then be EXTREMELY PERKY AND ANNOYING.
I’m barely managing to keep my eyes open when Luke lightly knocks on Kaylee’s door, but that doesn’t stop her from babbling away as soon as she opens the door about poster paper and marker tips and other stuff I wouldn’t care about even if I were awake. I’m relieved when her mom calls her to grab some snacks from the kitchen, allowing Luke and me to unload our backpacks without Kaylee chirping in our ears.
“I think I’m sleepwalking,” Luke groans, rubbing his eyes and then letting himself drop heavily into a chair at the dining-room table.
“If you were sleepwalking, you wouldn’t know you were sleepwalking,” I point out, pulling the last book from my bag.
—
GAME TIP #10: If you are prone to sleepwalking and your sister is having a sleepover at your house, you might want to sleep in something other than your smiley-face underwear. Just saying.
“I had no idea I was talking to Jay Roberts, sleepwalking expert,” Luke mumbles, resting his head on his folded arms and closing his eyes.
“Did someone not get his spinach-and-egg protein shake with fiber powder this morning? ’Cause if you want, I can make a call to your mom and see if she’ll bring over a batch for the group,” I tease.
This causes Luke’s eyes to open halfway, narrowing in on me. “Not in the mood, Jay. Not in the mood.” He yawns and has barely closed his eyes again when Kaylee saunters into the dining room with a tray full of food.
“Sweet,” Luke says, suddenly fully awake and in a better mood.
“That’s for break time. As in, the time we get to have when we have actually accomplished something. If you guys hadn’t been so late we probably would have been able to take a break by now,” Kaylee scolds. She tries to bat Luke’s hand away from the food tray, but he grabs a couple of cookies before she can stop him.
“It’s only quarter after nine,” I say, looking at the large clock on the wall beside me.
“So you can tell time,” Kaylee exclaims, putting on a sweet smile and looking in my direction. “See, I thought maybe you didn’t know that the big hand should be pointing at the twelve and the little hand should be pointing at the nine. Oh, I’m sorry. Am I going too fast? Do you want to me to explain it slooowwweerrr?”
“Give it a rest, Kaylee,” Luke says, wiping a few crumbs from his mouth.
“Where is Max? Why can’t people just be responsible and arrive on time? I’m going to go call him. Try not to burn the place down.” Kaylee tosses her hair, whips around, and heads out the doorway.
“Max is totally sleeping,” I predict.
Luke nods. “We should…all…be sleeping,” he says, talking in between bites of cookie, a few chunks falling out of his mouth.
“You’re my best friend, Luke, but sometimes, you seriously gross me out.”
Luke grins and swallows his final bite, leaning in slightly. “Did you see who’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” His expression has instantly turned serious.
“Oh, you mean the best team in the league? No, I hadn’t noticed,” I reply sarcastically. The Stars have won, like, five division championships, and one of their players won the league’s MVP trophy last year. The last time we played against them we were able to tie it up in the third, but lost by one goal with three minutes to go. I have been eagerly anticipating the opportunity to right that wrong.
“Well, eat a good breakfast, ’cause you’ll be up against #8 again. I heard that kid’s got an agent and everything,” Luke informs me.
“Yeah, right, those are totally rumors…you are seriously gullible,” I say, pretending that squaring off against the biggest, most skilled player in the league doesn’t faze me in the least.
“Awww, is someone afraid of big, bad #8 and taking it out on me?” Luke asks, crumpling a piece of paper in front of him and throwing it in my direction.
“You caught me,” I admit, grabbing my own piece of paper and scrunching it into a ball before launching it directly at Luke’s head. This, of course, leads to an all-out paper-ball war, with Luke and me seeking shelter behind our chairs, coming up only to launch our ammo.
“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” Kaylee is standing in the doorway, holding a large box of supplies with a horrified look on her face.
“We’re doing…scientific research,” Luke offers, smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper in front of him. “It appears that your, uh, hypothesis about the…um…aerodynamics of paper is correct, Jay,” Luke says, his thumb and index finger rubbing his chin as though he’s deep in thought.
“There is something seriously wrong with you two,” Kaylee says, shaking her head and placing the box on the table.
Luke and I exchange satisfied grins and pick up the paper balls around us, knowing our little game has come to an end. As Kaylee launches into a breakdown of what we need to get done, my mind is a million miles away, already thinking about tomorrow’s game. We might be facing a tough team, but as far as I’m conc
erned, that’s a good thing. A worthy competitor keeps us sharp, keeps us working. And as for their star player, #8? I’ve got three words for that guy:
Bring it on.
CHAPTER 11
After our group work is done, the rest of my PA Day is spent like most days off from school—hanging out, watching some TV, a bit of shooting practice in the driveway. I decide to bail on watching a late-night movie with Dylan, and the next morning I’m glad I did, because the Stars have brought their A game. (I’m actually not sure they have any other kind of game.)
By the time I come off my first shift we are already down by one, and I’m breathing heavily. I grab my water bottle and take a big swig, trying to concentrate on regulating my breath. It won’t be long before I’ll be jumping over the boards for another shift, so I need to conserve my energy while I’m on the bench, but I’m still following the play. My coach is calling for everyone to get back, and I see my teammates working hard to get into their defensive positions as the puck makes its way toward our net.
A few shots are taken on goal, but nothing makes it in. Finally, one of our players is able to grab the puck. He chips it long off the side boards and suddenly one of our guys is in the clear—it’s a breakaway! Everyone on the bench is up on their feet, yelling and screaming support, although the words are indecipherable in the echo-filled rink. Several players from the Stars are in hot pursuit but none is able to get to my teammate before he takes a shot on net. He goes high to the blocker side, but their goaltender makes a great save. The puck skitters loose from the goalie, who scrambles around the net, clearly in panic mode. A loose puck in front of the net can go either way, and sometimes luck is on your side. The puck slides right back to one of our players in the slot who calmly lifts it over the sprawling goalie.
Our whole team erupts with shouts and whistles, and those of us on the bench lean over the side to drum on the boards with our hands. The Stars’ goalie is shaking his head, obviously unhappy, and a couple of his teammates slap his big pads with their sticks, which is hockey talk for, “Don’t worry about it, bro.”
The celebration doesn’t last long. We need to get set up for the face-off.
“Roberts, Howsen, Mitchell,” my coach shouts. Bench time is over.
I ease myself over the boards, and as soon as my blades touch the ice I take off toward center ice. The ref is talking to one of the opposing coaches, and a few of us skate around for a few moments until he glides over with the puck. I am taking the face-off, so I am at the red line, bent over slightly with my stick across my knees, waiting for my opponent. When he’s finally in front of me, I look up—it’s #8. We put our sticks on the ice, both trying to get into the best possible position to win the draw. My eyes, however, are not on my stick. They are on the puck.
The referee drops his arm and blows the whistle, and I keep my eyes on the small black disk that falls from his hands to the ice. I am able to nudge my stick slightly in front at the last minute to win the face-off, and we are now in possession of the puck. But we barely make it past the red line before the other team steals the puck away from us. They immediately begin skating as a five-man unit in the other direction and are at full speed in an instant. One of their forwards takes a shot, and I chase the puck to the boards when it bounces off our goalie’s pads. Suddenly #8 is right there beside me, and now the puck is stuck between the boards and the two of us, both of us trying frantically to gain possession.
At last the puck is freed, which allows Luke to scoop it up, and now my team is headed up the ice in full force. The Stars skate back to play defense and one of their players tries to strip the puck from Luke, but he makes one sharp pass before he is slammed into the boards, and now the puck is mine.
Time slows down.
I am skating up the middle of the ice, unable to see Luke in my periphery but I know he’s coming up on the right side. My left-winger is already near the net, although he’s trying to lose a defenseman who is guarding him closely. As I glide toward the net, I make a mental note about where everyone is located, all the while focusing on any holes where the puck could possibly make its way past the goalie. In hockey, it helps to be strong and skilled and fast, but the best players are also able to see a play develop, to see what is unfolding around them and react accordingly. And that’s all mental.
The net is right in front of me but so are two rather large defensemen. One of them comes toward me, but I use a quick shoulder fake, skate around him, and pass the puck to my left-winger, who is now open. He makes a quick one-time return pass right back to me when one of the Stars gets in his face. Another defenseman immediately puts pressure on me, and knowing I don’t have a clear shot on goal, I shoot the puck behind the net, hoping Luke will pick it up on the other side. Sure enough, Luke is one step ahead of the defense, grabbing the puck and taking a shot from the right side that the goalie kicks out. A defenseman jumps on the rebound and tries to feed it to their forward on a breakout. I’m in between them and intercept the pass.
What happens next happens quickly and without me even thinking about it. I turn the puck back toward the net, pull back my stick, and shoot with all the energy I can muster. The goalie reaches up with his glove hand and tries to catch it, but the puck sails by and into the net, top shelf (“Where we keep the peanut butter,” as Coach says). There’s always that delayed moment after the puck goes in, that second where people aren’t quite sure if it has, indeed, made it in or not, but once that moment has passed, the rink is suddenly full of noise. A few of my teammates skate toward me, slapping me on the back with their gloves or giving me a quick hug. (If you can call it that—our version of a hug barely lasts a second and we make very little body contact. It’s a hockey thing.)
My team has taken the lead, but we are far from controlling the game, and the game is far from over. But hey, we’re holding our own, and if we can just keep it coming for the next couple of periods, we might see a victory yet.
We come back to center ice for another face-off, and #8 is in front of me again. He looks me straight in the eyes with an intense expression on his face, and I know exactly what he’s thinking, because I am thinking the same thing:
This one’s mine.
But this time, it’s #8 who is able to push in front, which allows him to win the face-off, and the Stars get control of the puck. We rush back to defend our end of the ice and after some shots on net (a few wide, a couple blocked, nothing that is even close to sticking), the whistle blows. I am momentarily confused. Was there some kind of penalty I missed? I look back at the referee, but he is already making his way through the gate off the ice, along with a few of the players. When I glance up at the scoreboard, I realize that first period is already over. Time flies when you’re having fun. And when you’re competing with the toughest team in the league, it would seem.
I follow the other players off the ice, anxious to get to the dressing room to adjust my equipment. At some point in the first period my right elbow pad got knocked around, but I couldn’t quite get to it without taking off my jersey. Just before reaching the dressing room, I hear someone behind me.
“Hey, #4!” Turning around I see #8 and a couple of his teammates in the hallway.
“That’s right, he’s talking to you…you DO know the number on the back of your jersey, right?” another player chimes in, walking a little closer to where I’m standing.
“Hey, uh…nice first period. I just need a second to—”
“Did you like that goal we gave you? We like to do that sometimes, you know, build up your confidence a bit before we absolutely and completely destroy you,” #8 is saying, and as he turns around to laugh with one of his teammates I see his last name for the first time. It’s Adams. Not only is he one of the best players in the league, but he has an A name. The kid probably got maracas or something for his school instrument. Unbelievable.
“See you on the ice,” I respond with a cool tone. It’s obvious to me that these kids are trying to engage in what is known a
s Smack Talk. Now, this is all part of the game, and I get that, but I have never really been all that fond of Smack Talk. Mostly because I am very bad at Smack Talk. Let me give you an example of a time I tried to engage in Smack Talk:
Opponent: Hey, #4! Skate much?
Me: (Silence)
Opponent: Seriously, my five-year-old brother’s team needs a forward, I can put in a call for ya! And, like…you’re the right size and everything!
Me: (Silence)
Opponent: Since you can’t skate, you’d think you would at least learn how to shoot a puck! See, what you’re trying to do is get the puck INTO the net.
Me: Your face looks like my cat.
Opponent: (Looks confused and skates away.)
In my defense, the guy’s face did look like the cat we had at the time. It was actually kind of creepy. But, needless to say, Smack Talk is not exactly my forte. For starters, I don’t really get the whole Smack Talk thing. A lot of people can talk a big game, but I’d rather do my talking with a hockey stick and puck. Maybe that’s just me.
At any rate, all I really want is to adjust my pad before the buzzer goes and we have to get back on the ice. These guys are clearly trying to throw me off my game, but it’s going to take a lot more than this. What I need to do is find a way to get out of this hallway before I make a cat comment.
“Everything okay, gentlemen?” I see Stan, one of the referees, walking toward us, taking a sip from an open pop can.
One of the cool things about living in a small town is that you get to know everyone pretty well. And when you play hockey, you get to know everyone involved with the sport even better. Stan has been officiating games for as long as I can remember, and I always feel comfortable stepping on the ice when I see him there. Not only is he a really good ref, but he’s just one of those people who’s there to make sure everyone has a good time. He skates around from player to player during our warm-up, giving us an encouraging tap on the helmet and telling us to “Have a good one” on the way by. At this moment, I am more than happy to see him, knowing that he won’t tolerate any Smack Talk from anyone.
Jay Versus the Saxophone of Doom Page 8
