Any Way You Slice It by Kristine Carlson Asselin

I’ve been watching.”
    He shakes his head. “Your job is scoring. Shooting pucks into the net. You’ll have protection from defense. Don’t worry, no one’s going to touch you.”
    His confidence is not reassuring. Especially when at that moment, two kids collide because they’re not paying attention. Jimmy Flores staggers on his skates and looks like a strong wind might blow him over.
    â€œDamn it, Flores. Learn how to skate!” Carter yells from his position in the net. Flores blushes deep red and glances over his shoulder, wobbling even more. A few more choice profanities from Carter, and I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
    Coach hasn’t stopped talking. “Get yourself comfortable on the ice today. Just skate around the edge—you’ve got to get used to the equipment to the point you don’t even know you’re wearing it. Like it’s an extension of your body. You’ve got to focus on the game, not on the way your pads are digging into your legs.” He points to the far end. “Skate to the logo on the boards, and back again. Do it ten times.”
    â€œWhen am I going to be able to shoot?”
    Oh my God, I’m totally whining like a baby. What did I expect? Of course he’s not going to let me shoot on the first day.
    He shakes his head and grins. “We’ll see how you do today. If you can get up and back ten times without falling flat on your face, you can take a shot.”
    Coach skates away from me and starts yelling at Flores to get out of the zone. I’m kinda shell-shocked, but also feeling really sorry for Flores. At least I won’t get yelled at for not being able to skate.
    â€œEveryone! Give me twenty red line–blue line sprints!” Coach yells. “You too, Flores!”
    I came all this way, lied to my parents about being at the library, struggled into the disgusting used gear and he’s not even going to let me take a shot. I slam my glove against the board and push off the wall, determined to show Coach and the team what I can do. My balance is off with the gear. I have no peripheral vision under the helmet. And I’m pretty sure Lori tied my skates too tight, because my left foot is tingling.
    â€œGo, Spaulding!” she screams from the stands.
    In reply, someone yells, “Beware, Pizza Princess on the ice!”
    Everyone laughs, and my face burns. I whip my head around, but I can’t tell who said it and it nearly sends me sprawling because I’m not used to the way this helmet fits.
    â€œCut the crap, Johnson,” Carter yells from the goal. “Have you seen the girl skate? You better watch yourself if she can shoot half as good as she skates!”
    I wave at Carter to thank him, but he scowls and looks away. Damn. I put my head down and keep skating.
    I don’t know Johnson, but the next second Jake smashes someone into the boards and I’m pretty sure he’s giving a lecture about trash-talking your teammates.
    I shoot an encouraging smile at Flores as I pass him, but I know it’s impossible to see the expression on my face behind the cage of my helmet. “You got this, Jimmy,” I whisper, hoping he can hear me.
    â€œEff you,” he says, and pulls ahead of me.
    I’m not sure what I expected, but this definitely isn’t it.
    About halfway to the line on my fourth lap, I lose my balance and my right skate goes completely out from under me. It feels like an eternity in the air, before I land on my butt. I haven’t tripped over my own feet on the ice since I was eight.
    â€œCrap.”
    Jake is right there, pulling me up. “Don’t worry about it. We all fall a crap load during practice.”
    I glance around to see if anyone saw him help me—surprisingly there’s no jeering about my lack of grace. Of course they are all busy pretending to look the other way. “Coach told me I had to make it back and