Any Way You Slice It by Kristine Carlson Asselin Page A

forth ten times from the wall, or he wouldn’t let me shoot today.”
    â€œJust keep at it.” Jake whispers. “Chances are he didn’t see you fall. And even if he did, if it looks like you’re trying and committed, he’ll let you take the shot.” He leans over to demonstrate. “The trick is to bend your knees. Keep your head up and use your stick for balance if you need to.”
    â€œWhat the hell!” yells Carter from the net. “Way to keep your skates under you!”
    To preserve my sanity, I pretend he’s yelling at Flores again and pick up my stick. I fall twice more, but it gets easier. Jake’s advice really helps. By the end of practice, I don’t actually notice the equipment that much anymore. Coach lets me take three shots. They all hit the net dead center and I can’t help but pump my arm in the air on the third.
    â€œCarter,” Coach yells. “Go back in there and block.”
    Carter skates back to the net and assumes what looks like his crouching tiger position. I line up the way the tutorial on YouTube suggested. This is how it’s going to be in a real game. The opposing team isn’t going to let me shoot a puck at an empty goal. Of course they’ll also have defense trying to stop me from shooting.
    Carter deflects my first shot, but just barely. Cheers erupt from the bench. I hear variations of “Way to go, Carter!”
    I change the position of my hands on the stick and shoot again. This time, I try a wrist shot and aim it over Carter’s glove.
    It goes in.
    Thank God for YouTube.
    â€œWhoa, great shot Spaulding!” Applause and cheers from the guys, for me this time.
    But a few voices are berating the goalie. “What the hell, Carter? You just got scored on by a girl!”
    I slam my stick into ice and glare at the bench, trying to figure out who the haters are. I don’t know why I didn’t expect this reaction from them. I was too worried about my dad; it just never occurred to me I’d have a problem with the team, too. But if I prove I can play, maybe it won’t be too hard to win them over.
    That is,
if
I decide to play.
    When I skate toward the bench, most of them are still cheering. Except Johnson, who won’t look at me. On my way off the ice, I get a few slaps on the back that nearly knock me over, and a bunch of “great jobs” as we toddle toward the locker room. Jake jogs over to give me a high five. “That was awesome.”
    That’s more like it.
    â€œC’mon in here for a minute, Spaulding,” the Coach says. “We just like to do a quick pep talk before we hit the showers.”
    The men’s locker room.
    This should be interesting.

Chapter Eight
    As soon as I set foot into the men’s locker room, I’m immediately knocked backward by the holy-crap-I-have-never-smelled-anything-more-rank-than-this smell. It’s a combination of body odor, sweaty socks, and wet dog. It’s like no one has washed their equipment. Ever. All at the same time. Multiplied by a thousand. I gag a couple of times.
    How can they stand this stench?
    I’m staring at the floor as guys start to strip. Johnson gets all the way down to bare chest before Coach clears his throat. “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?”
    At the word “ladies,” every one of them stops undressing as though just remembering I’m in the room. I back up against the door, so I can make a quick getaway, and casually cover my nose and mouth with the back of my hand.
    I pull off my helmet and try to smile, but I’m afraid it probably looks like I’m trying to hold back vomit.
    Which I am.
    â€œI’d like to welcome our newest player.” Coach gestures to me.
    I wave and then quickly put my hand back over my mouth.
    â€œPenelope Spaulding is a second-generation hockey player, replacing Matt Pearson,” he says.
    â€œWhat?” Johnson says.