Interference by Michelle Berry Page A

husband, Frank. And occasionally, Trish confessed after she pressed Submit on Dayton’s form, occasionally she plays shinny on the backyard rink her husband builds every year. Because Charlie plays hockey, Dayton assumes Trish must, at least, know the rules, she must know something about the game. “Dayton,” Trish laughed loudly. “You think I actually watch the game when I go? I catch up with the other moms. No one ever watches their kid play hockey. I couldn’t even tell you what position he played.”
    â€œThere are positions?”
    â€œSure, I signed you up for defence.”
    Dayton nodded.
    In California hockey was occasionally on TV in the bars when Dayton went for a drink after work. In the old days, before she had Carrie and stayed home alone most nights, she remembered watching hockey on TV in the bars. She had maybe glanced at it on the news while washing up the dishes after dinner. John had said he played once upon a time — Dayton can never be sure of what is the truth when it comes to John — but Dayton never paid attention to hockey. Not really. Men moving fast. Skating hard. A puck you can’t even see on TV, sticks everywhere. It was cold on the TV and Dayton was warm in sunny L.A. Beach volleyball, now that’s something she watched as she strolled the boardwalks with Carrie in a Snugli.
    â€œDo you have to wear a costume?” Dayton asked.
    Trish snorted her wine. “Costume? We’re not playing dress-up, Dayton, we’re playing hockey. Costume. Oh, that’s too funny. It’s called equipment. I think. That’s what I think.” Trish was getting drunk. Dayton smiled shyly.
    But now, here they are, on the ice, and Dayton is pretty sure it is all about the dressing up. It took her a serious, confusing, complicated forty-five minutes to figure out how to dress herself in this equipment, this armour. That’s only, Trish told her, because Dayton put everything on in the wrong order. Dayton will remember, next time, to plan it all out, to concentrate — her jill, then her shin pads, socks, shorts — and then put the skates on. She was lucky she didn’t rip Trish’s husband’s expensive padded shorts trying to squeeze the sharp blades of the skates into them. Someone should have made her practise getting dressed beforehand. The other new woman on the team tells Dayton she practised in her living room. Someone should have given her a lesson ahead of time. Life is like that — no one helps anyone out ahead of time but everyone seems ready to give advice after. To chide you. Laugh at your mistakes.
    A jill — now that was something new. Every little piece of Dayton’s body is protected, even her groin. Trish said, “I’ve had my babies,” to the young guy in the sports store, “I don’t need to protect anything down there.” He laughed, shrugged, blushed a bit. Old ladies, he must have thought, buying hockey equipment, protecting their old lady parts
.
Dayton could almost see him swallow down the bile. What’s next? The end of the world? Senior Ladies Leisure League.
    After the skates you put on the shoulder pads, neck guard, elbow pads, jersey and helmet. Trish and Dayton drew a line at the mouth guard. “How am I supposed to talk or cheer with that thing in my mouth?” And now Dayton’s out on the ice, watching the puck slide quickly past her goalie and into the net, listening to the board-banging other team, and wondering about it all. About playing the game of hockey. About women — some mildly old, some young, some in between — gathering together at 9:00 on a work night, their kids in bed, to slide around with blades on ice and whack at this little, hard puck using sticks. And why is the puck so hard? What’s it made out of? Even through her padding Dayton felt the smack of the puck when it hit the back of her leg.
    â€œOff the boards, off the boards,”