Page 10

ANDY

A NDY, THIS IS called an uh-ree-nah, Joy Hoffman enunciates carefully while motioning around the place where we’re currently shivering.

I growl at her, and she laughs. What? You said you needed to learn all the basics of hockey.

I know the normal vocabulary of life, just not the arcane sports terminology, I grumble.

I’m at the men’s exhibition game with Emily, Dawn, and Joy.

Emily is a huge fan of the Mustangs men’s team, and Joy dates someone on the women’s team, so they’re the perfect hockey experts to get me started.

Dawn hates sports, but she finds my predicament hilarious and insisted on coming along for laughs.

I don’t understand why they can’t find someone who knows more about hockey to cover it, Emily says.

Which is literally everyone else at this college, Dawn replies.

Blame my stupid ex. I’ve given up on complaining at the Messenger office, since Bryce takes pleasure in my struggles. In fact, I’ve stopped going there altogether.

So far, I’ve accomplished five of the seven things on my sports editor to-do list. Tonight’s game is number six. I talked to the Monarch athletic director and learned that the biggest intercollegiate sports are hockey, wrestling, and track. This odd combination is mainly due to alumni donations.

If you go to even one women’s hockey game, it’ll be one more than the last sports editor, Joy says. They’ll be thrilled to get the coverage.

I will, I promise. But unfortunately, it’s the men’s team everyone wants to read about.

I hope they have a better season this year. They didn’t even make the playoffs last year, Emily says.

Did you go to every single game? I ask.

Emily nods enthusiastically. You say that like it’s a form of medieval torture. Games are really fun. The energy of the crowd is great, the play is fast and exciting, and the guy who scores the winning goal might sit next to you in economics lecture. What could be better?

Literally anything. But I don’t voice this opinion.

I’m taking this assignment seriously—I’ve already highlighted and annotated my copy of An Idiot’s Guide to Hockey .

And last night I fell asleep to a podcast of two guys discussing college hockey teams. Granted, I only lasted about ten minutes, but it was a fruitful ten minutes.

I hear we have some new guys that are really good, Emily says.

Really? Who? I ask. Actually, wait a sec. Let me make a voice memo.

I start recording and hold my phone out as Emily peruses the list of players. Of course, I don’t recognize anyone’s name until she gets to Jack Sinclair.

I’ve heard he’s fast and a good puck mover. Of course, he’s good because he’s from somewhere in Canada—

Rosetown, Saskatchewan, I reply without thinking.

Emily squints down at her phone. Oh my god, how did you know that? Have you memorized the roster already?

No, but that’s a good idea. I add another step to my to-do list.

Jack? Isn’t that the guy you saw naked? Dawn asks slyly.

Andy! The guy you saw naked is on the hockey team? Emily squeals, loudly enough that two women in front of us turn and stare. Or maybe it’s the mention of a naked hockey player?

Emily is a one-woman inquisition. Why didn’t you tell me?! There are many women—and men—who would pay to see a naked hockey god. And you got it for free. Emily zooms in on his tiny roster photo and gasps. Oh wow, he’s really cute. Tell me that his body was as good as his face.

His body was as good as his face, I parrot back flatly.

Don’t mock me. I want details, she insists.

Fine. His butt was enormous.

That’s all I’ll give her, because despite Jack not being my favourite person, it feels like an invasion of his privacy to describe his—admittedly exquisite—physique.

After all, it’s not like he voluntarily undressed in front of me.

Although, by the way he seems to get around, I’m sure that numerous women on campus are already very familiar.

His body is probably splashed all over his social media.

Jocks love to take their shirts off at any opportunity.

Emily rolls her eyes. All hockey players have big butts. It’s an occupational ass -et. Get it? She chortles at her own joke.

I ignore her. Look, they’re skating out now. Can we get back to the hockey lessons?

Fine, but you’re telling me the whole story about meeting Jack after the first period, she insists. I demand details.

There’s no story, I mutter. Needless to say, I’ve never told my girlfriends that Jack asked me out, because then they’d nag me to go.

Besides, I’m still suspicious. If Jenny is his type, how can I also be his type?

I’m her complete opposite. It makes no sense.

Maybe I wrote about some sexual perversion in my journal that’s his particular kink?

I recognize Jack when he takes off his helmet in the player’s box thing. He doesn’t look quite as perfect as when I last saw him because he has a dark bruise on his cheek. Maybe he finally ran into some girl’s boyfriend? He tosses back his hair, puts on his helmet, and skates out.

I shake my head and focus back on my notes. I ask Emily, What do you mean by a ‘puck mover’? Don’t they all move the puck?

She points to the net. The goalie is the last line of defence. Two defencemen play in front of him.

I nod. I’ve seen the positions diagrammed in my book.

But the defencemen also start the offence, because they recover the puck after the other team shoots. The best defencemen pass the puck up quickly, so our team can counterattack.

Like a basketball team, Joy interjects.

I hold up a hand. Stop. My brain only has room for one sport at a time.

I don’t understand how you can have lived so long without knowing anything at all about any sports, Joy says. Were there no teams at your high school?

Of course there were. But I prioritized.

Like Einstein not wanting to clutter his brain with unnecessary details, I wasn’t interested in sports.

Besides, it bothers me that athletes get so much praise and adulation for being part of a lucky genetic pool.

As opposed to an artist, I motion to Dawn, or someone who studies hard and wins a science competition, or a debate tournament.

Joy shakes her head. I don’t know about that. Candace works really hard. She practises, she trains, she often plays through pain. I admire her work ethic.

That’s just another example of how we admire effort we can see, like gym training. But invisible work—like reading, spending hours researching, or rewriting an article seventeen times—that all gets ignored.

I flip to my diagram of the team positions and note the starting line-up as it’s announced. It feels like a good start.

Suddenly, a strange creature skates onto the ice. It has a large plush head with a huge muzzle, many teeth, and protruding furry horns. It’s wearing a white and purple team jersey and carrying a team flag on a long flagpole.

Dawn and I gape.

What the fuck is that supposed to be? she asks.

That’s Musty the Mustang. Emily jumps up, along with everyone else in the stands. I rise so I can watch.

Musty skates to the middle of the ice and does a little twirl. Then he points the flag to the opposite side of the rink.

Mus! they scream in unison.

He whips the flag towards us. Tangs! our side screams.

Mus! Tangs! Mus! Tangs! The chanting grows louder and louder and finally ends in a frenzy of screaming and cheering.

God, it’s like we’ve landed in some primitive society, I mutter to Dawn.

I heard that, says Emily. And this is nothing. You should have been here during the playoffs two seasons ago. People were cheering non-stop during the whole game. I couldn’t talk for two days afterwards.

Two days I remember with fondness, Dawn quips, and Emily sticks her tongue out.

Also, Musty the Mustang? Where is the creativity? I ask.

All hockey players have nicknames. Emily shows me the roster and explains the nicknames of the top players. Luckily for my memory, they all seem to be lame contractions of their last names.

Once the game starts, I quickly realize the roster won’t be any help at all. Everything moves so fast, there’s no way to tell what positions anyone is playing. And even with their names on their jerseys, I can’t tell the players apart. I try to make notes, but it’s all a blur.

Then there’s a roar of noise and cheering. Everyone is on their feet, and I jump up too, trying to figure out what is happening. We must have scored, because our players are hugging each other ecstatically. The Mus-Tangs chant begins again.

It’s so chaotic. I don’t know how I’m going to keep track of who did anything, I groan. Joy takes pity on me, and I scramble to record everything she tells me.

She points. Big Z scored that goal. Unassisted. He’s the team captain, Vik Zelenko.

Big Z? Please tell me there’s a Big D too, says Dawn.

Joy ignores her since she doesn’t care about D, big or small. She continues, Eventually you’ll be able to tell the players apart. Each player has a unique skating style. And even as they move, they loosely maintain their positions. She draws a pentagon on my page, labelling the positions.

Emily points to the players slapping hands. And, if that fails, watch the players as they do the fly-by. The guy who scored always goes first.

Fly-by, I write in my mess of a notebook.

The only person I can distinguish on the ice is Jack, probably because Dawn keeps nudging me whenever he does anything significant.

I know from the roster that he’s 6’3”, and he looks even bigger on the ice than he did in my room.

I can tell that he’s fast, but beyond that, I have no idea whether he’s a good player or not.

I watch Jack go for the puck behind the net and when he gets it, an opposing player smashes into him. When Jack crumples to the ice, I gasp and jump up.

Oh no, is he okay? Why isn’t the referee blowing his whistle?

Joy scoffs. Relax. Hitting is all part of the game. See? He’s up already.

That was Naked Guy. You’re worried he’s hurt. I knew you liked him, Dawn says.

Don’t be ridiculous, I snap as I sit back down. Joy is right though; Jack is skating away as if nothing happened. And she’s also right in that he skates with a graceful fluidity that I can already recognize.

A memory of the bloodied faces of hockey players on television flashes in my mind. Is that why Jack has a bruise on his face? No, wait, this is the first game of the season. Besides, there’s no way that something as barbaric as fighting is still allowed.

Does hockey still have fighting? I ask hesitantly.

Professional hockey does, but not college hockey, Joy replies.

Phew. Not only for the sake of Jack’s handsome profile, but because it’s bad enough that I have to write about hockey without adding boxing too.

I’ve decided to take a crack at writing about tonight’s game myself. Since it’s exhibition, I figure that not that many people will read it.

Luckily, there aren’t that many goals to keep track of. And there are breaks that allow me to decipher my notes and start drafting my story. The Mustangs win, 2-1, and everyone in the arena seems happy.

Are you going to the dressing room to do interviews now? Emily asks with an eagerness that suggests she’d like to come along.

I wrinkle my nose. Good Lord, no. Why would I do that?

Hockey stories usually have quotes from the players. Stuff like how they played, the importance of the game, how their goals happened, Joy says.

Walking into a room full of post-exertion jocks is as appealing as entering one of Dante’s circles of hell. I imagine the foul body odours and even fouler language, and shudder.

Then an even worse thought occurs to me. Would they even be dressed?

We can always hope. Emily raises crossed fingers.

That seems…improper. Hopefully, I can avoid doing that all season, I say. Let’s go. I need to write this up and post it tonight.

However, once I start writing, there’s not enough content.

I’m using previous hockey stories as a template, but I’m still not knowledgeable enough to really describe the details that went into each goal.

Besides, I barely saw what happened, and only wrote down who scored and who helped.

Ugh. I’m going to have to do some background research to flesh out this stupid story.