Any Way You Slice It by Kristine Carlson Asselin

on the door again. “Geez, don’t open the door right as I’m about to knock then.” He laughs. “You okay? What’s taking you so long?”
    â€œWhy?” I tug at my jersey. “Don’t I look okay?”
    â€œLori didn’t help you today.” It’s not a question. He’s totally trying not to laugh.
    â€œOh, crap, what’s wrong?” I fumble to smooth down my pants.
    He pulls off his glove and reaches out to finger the plastic at my neck. “You’ve got your pads on backward.”
    I feel myself blush. How could I screw that up?
    â€œShoot. Give me a couple minutes to fix it.” I go back into the locker room.
    He cocks his head and grimaces, like he’s embarrassed. “If I help you, it will only take a second. We’ve got to get out on the ice.”
    The crowd roars. The game is supposed to start in a few minutes. I take a deep breath. It’s against my better judgment, but I nod.
    He follows me back into the locker room. I throw off my gloves and pull my jersey over my head. Glancing in the mirror, I grimace. Sure enough, the chest protector is backward. I thought it felt weird, but I’d chalked it up to my first time without Lori’s help.
    â€œStupid,” I say, trying desperately not to think about how I’m about to be standing in front of Jake in only a tank top over my sports bra. He’s right there, his breath on the side of my face a combination of cinnamon and coffee, and I risk a look out of the corner of my eye.
    â€œNah, it could happen to anyone.”
    He’s so close. His tongue is sticking out of his mouth, in a look of sheer determination. My heart beats harder, as he pulls the Velcro strips and lifts the thing over my head.
    I keep my gaze forward as he flips the protector around and pushes it back over my head. His hand brushes the side of my face as he straightens it. My face flushes, and for an instant, our eyes meet.
    His hand drops to his side. “Maybe, um, maybe you should do that part,” he says, gesturing at the strip of Velcro that needs to be refastened hanging from the side of my chest.
    â€œYeah. Thanks,” I mumble, pressing the strips into place. “That was faster than doing it myself.”
    He grabs my jersey off the floor and gently puts it over my head. I’m reminded of the first time Lori helped me, but this time I don’t exactly feel like a toddler.
    Just for a moment, we stand there. Like there’s something else to be done. But I’m dressed—the right way this time—and the game is about to start.
    An air horn blares from the arena.
    â€œOkay, then,” he says, clapping his hands in a dead-on impression of Coach. “Let’s get out there.”
    When we step into the hallway between the locker room and the ice, Lori is up in the stands. She raises her eyebrows, like she’s wondering where we’ve been together. But she just waves. “Looking good, Sharon!”
    I’m glad she remembers the fake name we decided to use to deflect attention. It’s probably not fooling anyone.
    I step onto the ice and forget about everything else. I keep to the line, Jake directly in front of me with Flores a step behind. We skirt the wall tapping the ice with our sticks. It makes a cool rhythmic sound that’s supposed to intimidate our opponents. That’s the theory anyway. The opposing team is a rec team out of Gilson, and they’re doing the same thing, so it’s sort of pointless. But apparently, it’s tradition.
    I’m playing center, so as soon as the official drops the puck, I’m supposed to battle the dude in front of me for control of the game. Over the last few days, I’ve practiced the face-off a dozen times with Jake, and I’ve gotten pretty good. Not good enough, apparently. I don’t even get my stick on the ice before the giant I’m up against nabs the puck and pushes forward,