by Lexie Syrah
“This isn’t it,” I say, staring at his hand. A part of me thinks I should hold it, or crawl into bed beside him, like I did when we were little. I opt for awkwardly avoiding eye contact instead. “When you’re healed—”
“You heard the nurse. It’ll be the whole season before I’m able to play. And do you really think Coach Zabinski is going to let me on the ice for playoffs if I haven’t played in seven months? I barely made the team, as is.”
“Ugh.” I collapse back into the chair. “I know. I kicked your ass out there.”
“Hey.” Xander’s eyebrows lower. “This is my pity party.”
I watch Xander bite the corner of his left lip, and notice I’m doing the exact same thing, too. A nervous tic. “If only I could play for you,” I groan.
“Yeah,” Xander laughs. “Just cut your hair, why don’t ‘cha?”
We both laugh, and then in an instant, stare at each other with an intensity that only twins could muster. It used to freak our Mom out when we did this as kids. Mind-melding, she would call it.
“What if Xander Bell didn’t break his leg?” I whisper.
“I could still have my shot,” he whispers back.
I look around the room —there’s just one other family soothing a bratty kid whining about his broken arm. But you never know. They could be Zabinski spies.
I draw the curtains around us. “I could play for you.”
He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”
I move in closer, and lower my voice, even though the kid is crying so loud no one could overhear us. But I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory to lower your voice when plotting a deception like this. “I’ll be you.”
“What about the little pesky fact that you’re a girl?”
The idea erupts inside of me, as if my thoughts are the breakaway and Xander is the net I need to score in. “Coach didn’t even realize I was a girl until I took my helmet off. I can cut my hair. I’ll wear your clothes. We already walk, talk, and act the same. I’ll get you noticed by the scouts. And then we can just switch back once your leg gets better.”
“They’ll know,” he groans.
“You know they won’t,” I spit back. “My own boyfriend can’t tell us apart when we’re on the ice!”
“Oh yeah,” Xander says, rubbing his chin. “He grabbed my ass once. That was awkward.”
“So,” I say, a smirk running the length of my face, “what do you say?”
Xander looks down. “It’s too risky.”
I snatch his hand, and look at him, his face more familiar than my own reflection in a mirror. “You said it yourself, Xander. This is our big break. As a family. Let me do this for you.”
He looks down and bites the corner of his left lip. “Just…just don’t be too good. Promise?”
A rush of excitement takes over my body. “Promise.”
Chapter Three
Alice
It’s Monday afternoon and the Falcons’ first practice is tonight. We can’t put this off any longer. We’ve set up all the details, but I can’t say I’m feeling confident. But none of that little stuff — like making sure everyone thinks I’m a dude — matters right now, because tonight I GET TO PLAY HOCKEY!
Xander should be home from theater club any moment, and then the transformation will begin.
I run a hand through my long hair. When I tilt my head back, it grazes the small of my back. Mom would never let me cut it, and I’m not about to start the meltdown of the century by showing her my new ‘do. So I bought enough hair extensions to make Rapunzel jealous. It’ll be annoying to wear them around the house all the time, but Mom can never know about this plan. She’d never, in a million years, go along with me pretending to be a boy.
My door creaks open and Xander pokes his head in. “Hey.”
“You’re late. Practice starts in an hour.”
“Yeah, well, I got help.” Xander pushes the door open and hobbles into my room on his crutches. Behind him, a girl walks in, hefting a duffle bag larger than she is.
My heart whips into my throat. Xander doesn’t bring girls home on a good day—why would he bring a stranger here, on today of all days?
“Al,” Xander says, collapsing like a dying bird on my bed, “this is—”
“I’m Madison Myong!” The girl drops the giant duffel bag with a room-shaking bang and runs over to me. She snatches my hand and stares at me with shining brown eyes. “Oh my goodness. You really do look JUST like your brother.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.
Madison is quite a bit shorter than me, with long silky black hair, and more makeup than face. She grabs a strand of my hair and furrows her brow. “Hmm, we’ll need to get you some styling gel…and let’s see what we’re working with under here.”
“Xander?” I squeak, as this weird girl pushes me down on the bed and starts attempting to take off my hoodie. “Can you explain what’s going on?”
“Madison and I are in the theater club,” he says, purposely avoiding eye contact with me. I swat Madison’s hands away and she glares. “She was pretty concerned when I showed up with my broken leg—”
“Figuring he’s the newest player for the Falcons and I’m their newest volunteer!” She bats her eyes, and I can hardly control rolling mine.
“Volunteer?”
“I’m trying to get into med school, so I scored a volunteer placement under the Falcons’ trainers.” She flips her long locks behind her head and stares off dreamily. “Isn’t it so much better to be bandaging up sexy, sweaty hockey players than assessing old people’s skin?” She looks down at me. “Although you weren’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Blood rushes through my ears. Our secret could be out before the season even begins.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Madison says, and places a hand on my shoulder. Can she feel me shaking? “Your secret’s safe with me. I think it’s amazing what you’re doing. We girls got to stick together!”
I turn to Xander, and he just shrugs.
“I’ll be your ally off the ice,” she continues and gives a girlish giggle. “I feel like we’re in a Korean drama! Isn’t it to die for?”
I flop on the bed. “I wish.”
“All right, hoodie off!” she squeals. “Gotta bind those boobies!”
Xander turns to the wall, and I begrudgingly comply. It’s not like there’s a lot to hide anyway. Madison pulls a roll of medical tape out of her bag and constricts my chest with her magic boobie-be-gone tape. I take a laboured breath as she finishes and stand in front of the mirror. Flat as a board. As I’m planning to arrive to practice with all my gear already on, no one will be able to tell a thing.
“Tip number one,” Madison says, handing me a shirt, “don’t go around blushing around all the players. Guys don’t notice other guys’ rippling pectorals and muscular abdominals…” She trails off, as if she’s imagining it right now, but Xander and I just turn to each other and laugh.
“What?” Madison says.
“Trust me,” Xander snorts, “that won’t be a problem for Alice.”
“What, are you, like, into girls?”
“No,” I say, still reeling from the ridiculousness of it all. “Hockey players are just, like, the most non-sexual men out there. They’re not like hot, or sexy, or whatever. They’ve always just been my teammates. Even when I was on the same team as Freddy…”
I trail off and turn to Xander. Shit. We didn’t consider Freddy in any of this. I’ve been so caught up in figuring out how I was going to play in the league, I’d completely forgot about who already plays for it.
“Wait,” Madison says, “who’s Freddy?”
“Alice’s boyfriend,” Xander says. “Galen Fredlund. We call him Freddy. He plays for the Detroit Ice Wolves.”
“You’re dating Galen Fredlund of the Ice Wolves?” Madison shrieks, and I swear my windows crack.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, feeling like I just announced I’m dating Hitl
er or something.
“The Ice Wolves are the Falcons’ biggest rivals! And Fredlund…well, he’s just — are you going to tell him?”
“No,” I say, firm and immediate. I’m not sure when I decided that, whether it was right now or days ago, but it feels right. “This isn’t my secret to tell anyone. I only see Freddy once a month anyways. On the ice, he’ll just think I’m Xander.”
“He never was the sharpest blade, was he?” Xander says, smirking.
Xander’s never been Freddy’s number one fan, but he loves me enough to try. Being with Freddy is great; I don’t know if anyone else would understand my love of hockey, my commitment to going to the rink every day. And I’m always there for him too. I didn’t cry or complain when Freddy got chosen to play for the Ice Wolves last year. Detroit wasn’t far from our little suburb, and now with me in Chicago, I haven’t found long-distance too hard.
No, we might not have the mushy lovey-dovey romance that happens in Xander’s plays, but we understand each other. What more could I ask for?
I shake my head and stand. Forty-five minutes until practice.
“All right,” I say, “so the three of us…we’re in on this together.”
Xander turns back around, and Madison gives a little hop of glee. She reaches into the duffel bag and pulls out a pair of scissors. A sadistic smile crawls up her face. “Okay,” she says, snapping the scissors back and forth. “Ready for the fun part?”
“Can I?” I take the scissors from her hand and walk to the dresser mirror. I hold the metal up by my ear, catching a chunk of hair between the blades. One snip, and that’s it. The decision is made.
Until Xander heals, I won’t just be Alice anymore.
“You okay, Alice?” Madison whispers.
Snip.
“Call me Al.”
…
Hayden
I shrug my hockey bag over my shoulder. First practice with the Falcons today. I should be excited. I mean, I am excited! But there’s been this weird nervousness hanging around me all day.
Coach is going to announce the captain at practice. I don’t need to worry. I know it’ll be me. Who else could lead this team of schmucks? But I’ve been waiting for the “C” for over a year. And now that I’m finally going to get it, the only thing I can think is that I will never be as good a captain as Kevin.
I can’t keep thinking like that. I clench my fists. All the coaches and trainers ever rattle on about is the power of positive thinking. Sometimes that seems harder than all the drills and sprints.
As soon as I step into the locker room, my nerves wash away as I see the familiar faces. A sense of calm rushes through me as I clap the boys on their backs and ask about their summers. All up to no good, same as usual. There are a couple of rookies wandering around, wet noodles of anxiety and nerves. Maybe I felt like that on my first day, but I definitely didn’t let anyone know it. Maybe if they’re lucky, I’ll remember their names by the end of the season.
But there’s one rookie who catches my eye, and I can’t look away.
It’s just so goddamn painful—like witnessing a car crash in slow motion. Most of us are half-dressed or getting ready, but this one rookie has all his gear on already, even his gloves. He’s going from person to person…introducing himself?
He stands in front of Evans now. And—of course, because it’s Tyler Evans—he’s giving the rookie his full attention.
“Name’s Alexander! But my friends call me Al.”
I’ve only seen this guy for about two seconds, but already I’m finding it hard to believe he has any friends.
He continues to saunter from person to person, holding his glove out to greet everyone, and continues his cringe crusade. “’Sup, bro. How’s it hanging? You can call me Al. Fist bump! Nah? That’s cool. Super chill, dude. Just one of the team.”
I walk to my hook and throw off my shirt. Maybe the NHL weeds out weirdos like this. I can hardly wait to get there. I feel a presence behind me.
My turn to endure the torment of this insufferable rookie.
“Hey!” he says from behind me. His voice is nasally, almost like he’s got a premature cold. “I’m Alexander, but you can call—”
I turn around, and miraculously for the first time in five minutes, his chatter stops, and he just stands there, looking at me.
Creepy.
He’s shorter than me even in skates. And so small, it makes me wonder why Coach let him on the team.
Okay, this is getting weird. “How about we call you what you are?” I cross my arms over my chest. “A rookie.”
…
Alice
Now would be a super awesome time for me to think. I don’t know how long it’s been since I stopped talking, but half a billion years would be a pretty accurate guess.
It feels like there are a million things competing in my brain right now, but none of them have a chance. My visual sensory system is overloaded right now, with this guy standing in front of me.
He stares down at me, and his eyes are so brown, they’re nearly black. Like his eyes are black holes, and I’m just a pathetic little asteroid, in the path of being crushed by his gravity. His hair is dark and wavy, a few strands falling over his heavy eyebrows. I trace the rest of his face with my eyes. He has a slightly crooked nose. I wonder how he broke it — a fight? Face to the boards? His mouth is long and frowning, but it wouldn’t be hard to imagine a smile there.
My eyes trickle their way lower and I feel my heart bump hard against my rib cage. He’s not wearing a shirt.
What is this?
This isn’t me. This isn’t me at all. I’ve always played on the boy’s team and never felt this way about teammates! Even shirtless teammates.
So why is my heart fluttering, and my face on fire, and my mind empty of coherent thought? Why am I feeling like such a girl?
This is just dumb, inconvenient attraction. Which is definitely not okay, because I have a boyfriend! I just somehow lost all my thoughts when this guy turned around. I need to get them back, because I was doing a real great job of bonding with everyone and being a dude before I walked up to this loser.
But it’s just so hard to remember how to sound like a guy when he’s looking at me like that.
Then it hits me. This just isn’t any teammate. This is Hayden Tremblay, the star of the Falcons. I’ve read about him. He moved here from Winnipeg, Manitoba when his brother, Kevin Tremblay, was drafted to Chicago’s NHL team. Word has it Hayden had all the NHL scouts saying his name…until he was suspended five games last season and cost the Falcons the playoffs. Maybe that’s why he looks so mad.
Coach Z’s voice shocks me back to the present: “All right, boys, hit the ice!”
…
Hayden
Once I’m on the ice, I can forget about everything else…including that crazy new rookie. He’s so much shorter than everyone, I can’t even fathom how he got on the team. I bet Coach will cut him after a few games.
Coach starts us off doing basic drills and warming us up. It’s so easy to fall back into routine. Surprisingly, most of the rookies are doing all right, even crazy number 44.
But when’s Coach going to announce the new captain? After the practice? Will he have my new jersey ready?
Coach breaks us up into two teams for the last part of practice. All right, time to let the rookies know who they’re playing with and remind the other guys why I’m getting the C.
As soon as the puck drops, it’s like I’m in a league of my own. I win the faceoff, scoot down the ice, pass to Sacs, and now I’m lined up in front of the net. Sacs passes to me, and I pull my stick back for an easy goal.
My stick meets empty ice… The puck is gone!
I turn around, and it’s that damn rookie.
Bell. Number 44.
Al.
And he’s already halfway down the ice… How is he so fast? I sprint toward the other side, but he scores a goal before I make it to the blue line.
He tur
ns around, grinning like an idiot, then skates up to me. He’s hardly panting.
“Y’know,” he says, “if you didn’t take your eyes off the puck, I wouldn’t have been able to steal it from you so easily.”
I grind my teeth together. “What?”
“You took your eyes off the puck,” he says slower, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.
This rookie…this rookie is trying to give me advice? A hiss escapes my lips. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re someone who lost the puck.”
…
Coach Zabinski blows his whistle and motions for us to huddle up. That Bell is lucky; otherwise I would have destroyed him. Who does he think he is, giving me advice?
That stupid rookie is going to see he didn’t just mess with the best player on the Falcons. He messed with his captain.
“Nice hustle out there everyone,” Coach Z says, his nose and cheeks bright red from the rink. “I like what I’m seeing, but we still have a long way to go if we’re going to be any competition for the Ice Wolves.”
I can’t listen to Coach going on about the upcoming schedule and areas of improvement—I close my eyes and picture bringing my new jersey home to Kevin tonight. He’ll think it is such a big deal, crack some beers, tell Eleanor to take a picture of the two of us in our Cs.
I look down and dig my blade into the ice. It might be kind of a fun night, I guess.
“So that brings me to our last matter,” Coach says. “We don’t have a captain. Every team needs a captain. And we need to make sure the Falcons have the very best. You guys deserve a captain who considers the team number one, above all else. Above their own pride. A captain who plays each game for the logo on the front, not the name on the back.”
Breath comes ragged from my throat. I take off my gloves, ready to shake Coach’s hand.
“And right now,” Coach Z says, “no one here deserves it.”
I wait a beat. No one here deserves it…except for Tremblay. That’s what he’s going to say, right?
“So we’ll re-evaluate later in the season. That’s just the way the puck drops.”
