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didn’t expect it now. But when he beckoned me
my puck, leaving me no choice but to yank
into the arena for a Styrofoam cup of hot cocoa
her ponytail back and bash her head into the
from the concession stand, I followed. I wasn’t
glass. As she skated in tears to her mother, a
stupid. Food was always worth the trouble.
dainty trail of blood trickling from her nostril,
I burned my tongue on the cocoa but kept
the coach blew her whistle and threw me out
drinking it, relishing the warmth cascading
of the game. But even this wasn’t enough for
into my stomach and shooting into the
the team mothers, who ganged up on George,
capillaries in my face. George positioned me
Sr. in the parking lot, threatening to withdraw
at a picnic table on the other side of the glass
their daughters and, more importantly, their
from the ice, where a peewee team played a
money, from the league.
scrimmage. The shouts and whistles of the
So it was back to the boys. I began that
coach reverberated off the high ceilings, as the
season not knowing what an assist was, but by
armored players whipped toward each other
the end, I had made seventeen—and twelve
like bullets. Sitting there at the table, watching
goals. But all I cared about was that I could
it, my body felt restrained, corseted. Staring
once again pile with the boys into someone’s
down at the cup, I watched the tendons under
mother’s minivan, elbow to elbow and knee
my hands flex on its surface.
to knee, and go to Prezzioso’s, a dim Xanadu
That’s my boy over there, George said when the coach called a timeout. Number Seven. It was the monster. He was still gigantic,
with beautiful fake Tiffany lamps and a mowed-down carpet covered in red pepper flakes and powdered Parmesan, where I could
even from twenty feet away, even discounting
gobble sawdust pizza and fail, every week, to
the pads under his jersey. He removed his
beat Sam McGregor at Golden Tee.
helmet to reveal unruly black hair that recalled his father’s. Then he cruised, restless, waiting for the whistle, black eyes scanning the bladegouged rink like a predator. His name is George, too. I was the youth hockey equivalent of a feral
Why do you have a girl on your team? Especially such an ugly one? It was the first question out of the mouth of George Hadfield, Jr., our new teammate. He didn’t really need us—he was already on the varsity squad at Duluth East, and, at just
child, and George Hadfield, Sr., Chairman of
twelve, matched all of the juniors and most of
the Board of the Duluth Athletic Association,
the seniors in size. But he also had a legitimate
was the researcher tasked with reintroducing
chance at being scouted, and he wasn’t getting
me to civilization. I had never worn gloves or
nearly enough ice time. Playing for us, he
pads or a helmet, or been given skates or a stick
could count on getting as much as he pleased.
that fit me. I had no concept of periods or time-
He turned to me.
outs, of infractions or penalties, or that rules
You look like the fucking marshmallow
couldn’t be changed on the whim of whoever
man out there, waddling around. No wonder
shouted loudest. And before the end of the first
nobody passes to you. They’re afraid it’ll get
period of my first game with my new team,
lost in your fat rolls and they’ll never see it
West Duluth Girls 12U-A, some bitch stole
again.