Being Sloane Jacobs

by Lauren Morrill

  “Yeah, sure,” I say quickly.

  “Great,” he says. He reaches over and adjusts my purse strap, which is about to fall off my shoulder. “Meet you in the lobby, two o’clock? Come hungry.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

  I bolt for the door, trying to process the fact that I just agreed to spend time with the playboy of Elite. At least meeting Matt at two means I can disappear during all the open-ice time and then peace out again right when the scout is leaving. It’s perfect.

  I push through the back door, emerging just in front of the bike racks. I stride up the little stone path that leads around to the street and start to breathe easy. I made it.

  “Sloane!” Coach Hannah. She’s coming at me from the front of the building. “I’m glad I ran into you. I didn’t see your name on the interview list, and I figured since you’re going into your senior year, you definitely wouldn’t want to miss out on a chance to talk to the scout.”

  “Right.” Damn damn damn! “I was planning to sign up. I just wanted to run an errand really quick. I can sign up when I get back.”

  “Well, his schedule is filling up fast. Most of the later slots are taken. But I saw the list—he’s got an opening right now. Do you want to jump on that?”

  “Oh, uh, great, well—” I try to grasp for an excuse, but from Coach Hannah’s stern expression, I know if I ditch, she’ll realize something is up. I take a deep breath. “Let’s go, then!”

  “Great!” she says. “He’s down at the rink. I was just heading over there. I can walk with you.”

  I follow her down the sidewalk to the arena next door, feeling like I’m heading to my execution. She chatters on about meeting the McGill scout for the first time and all the visits she made and how hard it was to decide which school to pick. I hear her say something about “the Harvard of Canada,” but I’m barely listening.

  Sure, from across a room you could mistake Sloane Devon and me for each other, but if this scout wants to conduct some kind of interview, he’ll remember my face. And then he’ll remember that it’s not the same face as the girl who could potentially show up on campus in a year.

  And if he meets me and hates me, Sloane Devon isn’t going to make a visit at all—because she won’t be going to college there. Either way, I lose, and she loses.

  Hannah leads me into the front doors and down the steps. “He’s over there.” She points across the stands to the other side of the ice, where the scout is sitting next to Coach Amber. They’re talking, and Amber is pointing to a skater on the ice who’s making shot after shot. It’s Melody.

  “I can go myself!” I practically screech. I have to formulate a plan between here and there, and if that plan involves running for my life, I don’t want Hannah at my side to hold me back. She gives me a strange look, but just nods and turns to head toward the locker room.

  Think, think. I have probably three minutes before I’m in front of the scout. Three minutes to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I get to the bottom of the steps and turn to wind around the far end of the rink (sure, it’s three times as long, but this gives me more time to think). I’m just barely at ice level when I trip over something large that clatters beneath my feet. It’s a hockey helmet with a thick wire face mask. It won’t completely hide my face, but it’s better than nothing.

  I grab it and jam it onto my head. It’s tight, but it fits, and it only smells like a dead fish a little bit.

  I climb the steps, and within seconds I’m mask to face with Coach Amber and the scout.

  She gives me a look that says, “Who let you out of the asylum?” but instead just introduces me to Joe Rutherford, representative from the Boston University ice hockey team.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

  “Nice helmet,” he says.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say, and giggle like I’m always wandering around in jeans and a face mask. “I was thinking about getting one like this, but I wanted to really test the fit, you know? Gotta protect the old noggin. So I’m just wearing it around. Safety first!”

  I say this like it makes absolute total sense, and Mr. Rutherford just laughs. He laughs. Like this is all quirky, but normal.

  “Sloane, I read your file. You come highly recommended by Coach Butler. He and I are old friends, you know.”

  “Oh?” The name rings a bell. Sloane Devon’s coach back home, I think, but I can’t be sure. Best to stay vague.

  “Heard you’re a serious offensive threat. Got a slap shot like he’s never seen.”

  “Well, I’m flattered,” I say.

  “Also heard you’ve got a bit of an anger problem?”

  “I, uh—”

  Amber jumps in. “We haven’t seen that at all here,” she says. “Sloane has been a great team player. Never hogging the puck, always congratulating her teammates.”

  It’s true. I don’t hog the puck, mostly because I’m doing my best to keep from ever touching it. And the constant praise of my teammates helps takes the focus off my own playing. But I can see Mr. Rutherford is still looking at me for an explanation, and I have to give him one that’ll make him think Sloane Devon isn’t any kind of loose cannon or psycho on the ice. I have to reassure him. For her.

  “I’ve always played hard, and there have been times in the past where my passion has gotten the best of me,” I say. “But those have all been learning moments for me. I’d say I’ve learned to become an aggressive yet controlled player.”

  He smiles and nods and I relax a little. Maybe I did learn something from my father. I can spin with the best of ’em.

  “That’s really good to hear, Sloane,” Mr. Rutherford says. He shakes my hand again. “I’m looking forward to seeing you on the ice.”

  “Definitely!” I say. My heart sinks. Great—I’m going to have to skate for him. Sloane Devon’s entire future rests on my performance. I hope she knows how lucky she is to have someone as dedicated as me living her life. She had better be hustling just as hard across town. “Let me go get changed.”

  I race back to my room and swap out my jeans and T-shirt for practice gear. I take out Sloane’s black varsity jersey, her name sewn on the back in thick yellow letters. I’m going to need it to get into character. I dash off a quick text to Sloane Devon before returning to the arena.

  Scout here. Am skating. Will try not to suck.

  A half hour later, I’m suited up and taking my first step onto the ice. I look up and see Mr. Rutherford, still parked next to Amber. Hannah has joined them, and the two coaches give me covert thumbs-ups from the stands. Like that will help me.

  I shake out my left foot, then my right, then my left arm, then my right, just like I do before my long program. Gotta shake out the jitters, Henry always used to say. Thinking about his voice makes me miss my home rink back in DC, where I could do my skating for an audience of zero. How the heck did I end up at hockey camp?

  I shouldn’t be here.

  But here I am. Mackenzie, the skater from check-in, is down here. There’s another skater I don’t recognize sitting in the goal. And Melody, of course. She skates up and skids to a stop intimidatingly close to me. Our helmets are nearly touching.

  “Couch A says she wants us to do a little one-on-one for the scout,” Melody says. “BU is my first choice, so don’t make me look bad or I’ll make you pay.”

  I don’t want to know what that means. “Back atcha,” I mutter, but she’s already adjusting her helmet and slapping the ice to get psyched up. I mentally curse the skating gods, hockey and otherwise, for putting me with Melody on what is already the worst ice experience of my life, other than my epic fail at junior nationals.

  “All right, let’s have Mackenzie on defense. Melody and Sloane, I want to see some teamwork from you on offense,” Coach Amber shouts across the ice. Melody slaps her stick hard on the surface, and the ice splinters a little beneath her. I’m sure she’s none too happy to have to work with me. But she looks over and
nods. I nod back, hoping this means she won’t kill me.

  Mackenzie skates off to center ice and faces us, her back to the goal. Coach Amber slides a shiny black puck across the ice. I stop it with my stick. Melody and I line up for our attempt. Mackenzie starts skating backward, her eyes locked on us. I start to charge, then quickly pass the puck to Melody. Mackenzie apparently anticipated that her efforts were better spent on Melody, because she’s already halfway to her, and Melody has no choice but to pass back to me. Mackenzie’s not quick enough, and I shoot. The puck skids past the goalkeeper and hits the net.

  Oh my God. I actually scored.

  We line up again. This time Melody starts with the puck. Mackenzie goes for her right away, but Melody executes a spinning juke, shoots, and scores.

  For the third attempt, I start with the puck. Mackenzie has learned her lesson and doesn’t commit to either of us right away. I drive forward a few strides, then pass to Melody. Mackenzie charges her. There’s no time for Melody to take a clear shot. She passes back to me. I take a few more strides toward the goal, heart pounding, just managing to keep the puck in control. Mackenzie heads toward the goal to defend. Her eyes are locked on me, and I realize that the best chance to score is to pass to Melody.

  With Mackenzie’s eyes glued to me, and her body turned to defend against my attack, I slap the puck left to Melody. She doesn’t even stop it, just winds up and connects with the whizzing puck. It shifts direction and heads straight for the goal. Mackenzie wasn’t expecting it, and we score.

  “Nice!” Melody shouts, and I can’t tell if she’s congratulating herself or congratulating me. I see both Mr. Rutherford and Coach Hannah clapping in the stands.

  “One more,” Coach Amber calls, and we line it up again.

  This time Mackenzie is all over Melody right from the start. I take a deep breath and skate. I drive straight for the goal, but in a flash, Mackenzie is on me. She was faking me out, just waiting for me to let my guard down. I look to pass, but I’d have to shoot the puck straight through Mackenzie. I move to her right at the last moment. She goes in to stop me.

  And then something amazing happens. I pick up my left foot and spin fast on my right. I make it around her in one beautiful rotation, and then I’m off. She sprints after me. But just before she can get her leg in front of me, I execute a split jump and leap past her, giving the puck an extra push to go with me. Swish, swish, swish, and then I’m at the goal. I haul back in what I hope is a good approximation of all the YouTube videos I watched, and shoot. I score.

  I hear applause and even a long whistle from the stands. Amber, Hannah, and Mr. Rutherford are on their feet. Inside my head, an entire marching band is playing a Jock Jams soundtrack. Holy crap, did I just do that? Melody skates over and gives me a high five.

  “Nice moves, Jacobs,” she says, grinning. I realize I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.

  “Thanks!” I say, and my smile beams out like a spotlight across the ice.

  “Calm down, it was one shot, rook.” Okay, so same old Melody.

  The rest of the practice goes fine. Nothing spectacular. We switch up positions. When I’m on defense, I only keep Melody from scoring once, but I hope Mr. Rutherford chalks that up to Sloane Devon’s experience as a predominantly offensive player and the fact that Melody is damn good. When Melody is on D, we score about three-quarters of the time. Each shot gets Melody more and more riled until I’m afraid she’s going to lay me out from behind. I’m actually semi-disappointed that she doesn’t.

  When we’re done, Mr. Rutherford shakes my hand and tells me he’ll be in touch, which I take as a decent sign.

  As I make my way back to my room to shower, I’m all smiles, until I step off the elevator and see a tall guy folded up on the floor in front of my door. It’s Matt, his back to the door, his legs bent and still taking up most of the hallway. I glance at the clock by the elevator: 4:00.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. But Matt just shakes his head.

  “Sloane, look, I know what you think about me. But people make mistakes. And people change.” He actually looks wounded. “Blowing me off was not cool. You said we could be friends.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry,” I say again.

  “So you said.” He stands up and walks away from me, heading toward the stairs at the end of the hall. He stops and looks back to me. “I want to tell you that you’re wrong about me. Because you are.”

  Before I can speak, he turns on his heel and heads straight for the stairs.

  CHAPTER 16

  SLOANE DEVON

  “Thirty-three … thirty-four … thirty-five.”

  My fingers sink into the plush white carpeting. I huff and puff out the count, trying to ignore the burn that’s starting in my biceps.

  “Thirty-six … thirty-seven.”

  “Give it a rest, GI Jane,” Ivy says from the bed, where she’s lazily filing her nails (probably into razor-sharp points).

  “Shut. Up.” I suck air as I snap back at her.

  “Sleep. I need it.” She tosses her file onto the nightstand and fluffs her pillow. Her pink cami and matching booty shorts are so tiny and so bright, they’re practically offensive.

  “Almost. Done,” I say. I shake a bead of sweat off my forehead before it rolls into my eye. “Forty-two. Forty-three.”

  With the Pilates and the yoga and the morning runs around the grounds and the water aerobics, plus all the skating, I’m working out just as hard as I ever did back home. But it doesn’t matter how long I can hold warrior pose if I can’t still crank out fifty push-ups. Coach Butler will have me doing morning workouts for sure if I come home and can only get through twenty.

  If I’m still playing when I get back, that is. None of it will matter when Coach Butler gets a crappy report from that scout. I texted Sloane Emily to find out what happened, but she never wrote back, which must mean it didn’t go well. How could it? The girl only learned to play hockey two weeks ago.

  I increase my speed and pound out the last few. When I hit fifty, I drop flat on the ground, my nose buried in the rug.

  “Finally. Gold star for you.” Ivy yanks the chain on the lamp by her bed, plunging the room into darkness, never mind the fact that I still have to shower and change into my pajamas.

  I roll over onto my back and breathe quietly in the dark. I haven’t done fifty push-ups since I left Philly over two weeks ago. I used to be able to get at least seventy-five no problem, but tonight was tough. I’m out of practice. I wonder what else is getting rusty while I perform camel spins and arabesques.

  When my breathing returns to normal, I creep into the bathroom and close the door as quietly as I can before flipping on the light. I spot myself in the mirror. I’m wearing one of Sloane’s black leotards with the puckering in the chest and a pair of pink knit leggings rolled at the waist. My long black hair is gathered in a messy bun, but a sheer pink scarf tied around my head mostly hides the frizzies. I don’t look like someone who spends her evening doing fifty push-ups.

  I yank the scarf off, strip out of the rest of my borrowed clothes, and climb into a steamy hot shower. I let the water run down my face in fat streams, and my mind goes where it always goes as soon as I get in the shower: to the game. This time it’s the scrimmage with Nando and his buddies. I was okay. Not my best, but definitely not my worst. Not until that missed shot, that is. With my eyes closed, the steam closing in, I start to feel the tingles again. The humiliation climbs up my spine like a persistent inchworm of misery.

  So maybe it’s not such a bad thing that Sloane Emily was the one skating for the scout. It’s not like I could have made a shot. I couldn’t even make a shot while playing a pickup game in front of an old friend and a bunch of weekend warriors.

  I spin the faucet and the water stops all at once. It’s totally silent except for the sound of a million missed shots all in my head. And suddenly all I want is to make a shot. Just one. I need to hear the puck connect with the net so that maybe the sound of a mill
ion defeats will go away.

  I creep back into the bedroom and feel my way to the wardrobe. I find my cell phone in the back and use its illuminated face as a flashlight, digging around until I find a pair of black sweatpants—flared-leg fleece things with PRINCETON printed down the leg in bright orange, but still, sweatpants—and a plain white tee. I wiggle into them, then pad toward the door, throwing Sloane Emily’s skates over my shoulder.

  The practice rink is inside a barn, outside the main building and down a little grassy hill on the back of the property. For most of our classes and lessons we’re down the block at a large, professional-looking arena. The practice rink is smaller, about half the size of a regular rink, and mostly used for one-on-one lessons and voluntary extra practice.

  Inside, I fumble for the switch on the wall that illuminates the ice. The rink is very plain: a concrete perimeter and a two-foot-high wooden barrier encircle the ice. They must have Zambonied it before the end of the day, because it’s smooth as glass.

  I lace up Sloane’s skates, then step over the barrier, testing the ice. It’s perfect. I push off with my left foot, my right leg straight, my left extending behind me in a perfect arabesque. But after only one stride, I drop my butt and bend my knees. My arms go to my sides, and I push out hard with my left foot. I shoot forward, then push with my right. Left, right, left, right, my arms rising and falling just like I learned in my very first speed skating lesson when I was a kid. When I approach the end of the rink, I cross my right foot over and push deep with my left. In only two strides I’ve made the turn and am flying back down the straightaway. Midway through, I flip around so I’m skating backward, crossing over into the opposite turn. Then I’m cutting across center ice in a quick two-step. Then I’m back in the other direction. Step, step, step, slide. Step, step, step, slide. It’s harder in these ridiculous skates with their ridiculous heel, but I’ve used them enough that I know how to make it work.

  Soon I’m holding a phantom hockey stick, taking an invisible puck up and down the ice. As I drive to the end of the rink, I imagine a roaring crowd, the way it was before. I wind up, I eye the imaginary goalie, I shoot, I score. No tingles. Just cheers.