Cinderella in Skates (3 page)

"See ya, Coach." Shane turns to me. "Let's go grab some seats."
 

***

Shane and I settle into two seats on the cold metal bleachers and I can't help but wish he'd warned me that I'd want to bring a pair of gloves and maybe even a hat for this scrimmage.
 

"It's freezing in here," I point out helpfully.

"Yeah, well, there's the whole issue of having to keep the ice in good playing condition." Shane says this kindly, like me being surprised that it's cold isn't stupid at all even though it clearly is.
 

Players trot out onto the ice, all dressed in white pants and blue jerseys with half of them wearing bright red mesh pinnies over them.
 

They take a few laps skating around the ice before arranging themselves in position for the start of the scrimmage.

"So this is a face-off," Shane says, glancing over at me.
 

I smile. "I know that much. I'm not totally clueless."
 

"I wasn't sure," he replies. "Glad to hear it, being that your dad played college puck and all."
 

"I've watched him watch enough hockey on television to understand the basics. It's just all the ins-and-outs and stuff that I don't get."
 

He nods. "We'll work on that."
 

The smile he shoots me when he says this is so friendly and reassuring and he seems so much less tense now than he did just half an hour ago, and I'm glad.

Plus, he's really freakin' cute when he smiles.
 

The ref drops the puck and the players begin skating. The red team controls possession first, their passing crisp and fluid, and I know my dad would approve.

"They look good," I say, but I'm not sure he hears me. He's engrossed in the meaningless game, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, chin on his knuckles, eyes following the action.

"Come on, Tommy, you've got Steve," he mutters to no one in particular.
 

I lean back, watching the game but not really seeing it. I scan the arena: the crowd is sparse, mostly parents and what looks like a few students down in front.

Faded blue banners hang from the rafters, detailing conference titles and state crowns, the most recent one coming two years ago. Each championship lists the game's MVP, and right under the last one reads in small block text SHANE STANFORD, MOST VALUABLE PLAYER.

I look down at him, watching him intently staring at the game, and I realize this shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. He's a college hockey player for one of the best programs in the country. Of course he's good enough to lead his team to a state high school championship.
 

But still.

I'm a little impressed.

"You something of a celebrity around here?" I ask him.

He breaks out of his trance and glances over at me. "What?"

I nod in the direction of the banner. "MVP?"

He blushes. "Oh, yeah. I hate that dumb award," he says. "I don't believe in MVPs."
 

"Why?"
 

Shane shrugs. "It's really simple. In a sport like hockey, you can't win a championship by yourself. If you take me off the team, you've still got a whole lineup of guys that can win. I'm not the reason we won it that year. If I was, we would've won it every year I was in high school, right?"
 

I stare at him. What he's saying is such a different attitude from everything I'd expect from a sports star. Even my dad loves bragging about his individual accomplishments in high school and college hockey. Anyone who's met him more than once knows he led his team in points all four years he played in Madison.

"But obviously you were important," I finally say. "Or they wouldn't have named you MVP."
 

"I don't play goalie," he replies. "I didn't stop Rich Land from scoring the tying goal in the final seconds of our semifinal game. I don't play defense. I didn't block six shots on a single penalty kill like Cody Taylor."
 

"How many goals did you score in that game?"
 

He glances down at his shoes before mumbling his answer. "Four."

"So without your four goals, it wouldn't have mattered if the goalie stopped that shot, right? You would've been losing, anyway. And maybe the goalie shouldn't have given up all those goals to be in that position at the end of the game in the first place. Maybe the defense should've helped out more. But without your goals, you don't even have a shot to win." I shrug. "I don't know. Just an idea."
 

He looks at me with a funny expression spreading across his face. "I don't think of it like that."
 

"Maybe you should."
 

Shane's about to say something else when the ref's shrill whistle blasts, echoing throughout the almost-empty arena. We both jump and focus our attention on the ice.
 

The players stand around as two guys, one in red and one in blue, skate around each other in slow circles.
 

"That didn't take long," Shane says. "But it's kinda weird for a scrimmage."
 

The player in a blue jersey lunges toward the guy in red, latching onto the cloth of his pinny, trying to spin him around. The refs stand there, watching, waiting for...well, who knows what they're waiting for? I'm not sure why they aren't trying to separate the two guys.

As if reading my mind, Shane turns to me.
 

"They usually let it go for awhile," he says. "At least until one of the guys hits the ice or a bunch of players get involved. It's just part of the game. Something we love that makes hockey unique."

"You love getting your ass beat?" I ask.

He grins. "Who says I ever let that happen?"
 

"You seem like you'd be easy to beat up, that's all."
 

Shane flexes his arm muscles and wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I try to keep my cool and not stare at the ripples in his biceps. "Oh, yeah? You see these guns? Do I look like I'd let someone take me down?"
 

It's getting harder not to burst out laughing. "I'm not impressed."

"Then you're awfully hard to please, Miss Natalie."
 

I smile at him and shrug. "I guess I am." I glance back at the ice where the refs are sending the two players into the penalty box. "So, what, they let them fight but then make them sit out?"
 

Shane nods. "Usually, yeah. Coach probably wouldn't mind in a real game, either. It can give some good momentum."
 

I want to ask why it's only good momentum for just one team but play starts up again and within thirty seconds, a guy in red has netted the first goal of the game, and Shane's on his feet along with just about everyone else in the arena, clapping and cheering, and I'm surprised there's this much enthusiasm for a scrimmage.
 

But I guess maybe he's on to something with the whole momentum thing after all.
 

Shane's all excited now that there's action. He's practically on the edge of the bleachers, eyes rooted to the scene in front of him. I lean back and watch the game, my eyes every now and then flickering over to him, and for a little while at least, it feels like I'm not even in a new place at all.
 

And that isn't something I ever thought possible.
 

CHAPTER THREE

"How was the game last night?"
 

Dad's sitting at the island in our kitchen when I walk downstairs the next morning in my pajamas, desperate to find a glass of orange juice and some eggs.

"It was fun," I say, shuffling over to the fridge. "Not really a game, but it wasn't bad."
 

Dad beams. "I knew you'd finally get into the beautiful sport."
 

I pour myself a glass of juice. "I don't know if I'd say I'm into it, exactly, but it was better than sitting around at home all night. I just don't think I'd want to spend every day watching hockey or anything."
 

"Oh, but you will," he says. "Because I have a bit of a proposition for you."

I raise my eyebrows as I take of sip of the orange-y goodness. "Go on."
 

"Your mother and I know you want to go back to Arizona as soon as you finish high school," he says. "And we've already agreed you can apply to college there. But if you want to spend the summer back in Phoenix, we'll allow you to move in with your grandparents in June."
 

My eyes light up. It's a battle I've been trying to win since Dad first announced we were picking up and shuttling to Wisconsin, and they hadn't given me a straight answer for months. But if I know I can move back to Arizona in just eight short months, I won't have any trouble getting through every day here.
 

"Okay! Thank you!" I squeal, running over to throw my arms around him.

But before I can get there, he holds up a hand, stopping me in my tracks.
 

"Just a second," he says. "That's not the bargain. I haven't told you what we expect from you if you want to do this. We'll hold up our end of the deal if you hold up yours."

I take a deep breath, but it doesn't matter what he's going to say. I know I'll do whatever it takes. Straight A's, planting a vegetable garden, writing a book, unpacking the moving van myself. I don't care. I'm going back to Arizona in June, and that's the end of that.
 

"We want you to do something here that you can't do back in Phoenix," he goes on, then he pauses. "Well, you can but not at your old high school, anyway." Dad takes a deep breath as my impatience grows, then he smiles widely at me. "We want you to make your new school's hockey team!"
 

I slowly place the glass of orange juice on the counter.
 

What did he just say?

"What did you just say?"
 

"Yep," he replies. "Make the team and you can go back to Arizona. Try something new. Make the best of your time here. For your old man, but also for yourself."

"Dad, I--I can't even ice skate."
 

He waves his hand. "Sure you can. Your mother and I used to take you all the time. You were a natural. You'll be great at hockey."
 

"I don't know the first thing about playing."
 

He smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's where I'm one step ahead of you, kiddo. I've got someone who's agreed to teach you how to play. It'll be great! We think it'll make your transition here go much smoother."
 

I narrow my eyes. "Who?"
 

"Shane. Joe Stanford's son. He agreed to teach you the basics. He's very good at hockey, you know."

Oh, I know.
 

But Shane?

As a coach? As
my
coach?
 

I don't know what to think.
 

"He said he would do it?"
 

Dad nods. "Yep. Well, Joe said he'd do it, and Joe shot me a message that he asked Shane, and now Shane's very excited about it."
 

Excited, huh?
 

Hmm.

"What am I supposed to learn?"
 

"I spoke to the coach at your new school."
 

Of course he did.

"She says they're a bit thin at the goalie position," Dad says. "She thinks that'd be your best bet for cracking her roster."
 

"And if I don't make the team, then what? I just can't go back to Phoenix? I have to stay here? Even if I try?"
 

"Yep. You won't go back until your semester starts in the fall then, if that's where you end up."
 

"They probably have a lot of players who are good, though."
 

"Yeah, they probably do. We're not asking you to earn playing time, Natbat," he says. "Just crack the roster."
 

"Dad, this is crazy."
 

He shrugs. "Maybe, but it's what we're going to do. Isn't it better than not going back at all?"
 

"What if I don't want to?"
 

"That's your choice. You don't have to do it. But then you'll spend the summer in Madison with us. It's that simple."
 

I sigh. I really, really don't want to do that. I need Phoenix back in my life.
 

And...well, if my parents aren't saying no, then why shouldn't I at least try to make it happen? Plus, if they see that I stick with it and try really hard, and even if I don't make the team, maybe I can still convince them to let me go home anyway.

It's a shot I have to take.
 

I look up at Dad.

"When do I start?"
 

***

Shane and his dad appear at our front door minutes after the moving truck pulls up in front of our house.
 

"Told you we want to help," Joe Stanford says over my mother's protests that it's really not necessary.
 

I can't help but smile when I see Shane, though, and I hope Mom zips it before they take her seriously and go home.
 

The movers pretty much have the furniture part covered but once they've put all of mine in my room, I'm ready to start painting the walls.
 

"Shane," Mom says. "Why don't you help Natalie paint? She's never done it before and I'm afraid it will turn into a disaster."
 

Shane grins and I try to hide my smile even though she makes me sound like an idiot. Mom's immediately forgiven for trying to drive them away earlier.
 

"Sounds good," he says, looking over at me. "I'm a master painter. Lead the way."

He follows me up two flights of stairs to my third-story bedroom. All of the furniture is smushed together in the middle of the floor and Dad had put the drop cloths in place earlier.

"What color?" he asks, rolling up the sleeves of his old, paint-splattered shirt to reveal strong forearms.