He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Twenty: Weston | Regret

            I know that size is irrelevant when it comes to strategy. I've seen enough self-defense demonstrations during high school phys-ed to know that a woman can easily take down a man twice her size. But Gracie? The same Gracie who asks RJ and Eli to open the jar of mayonnaise for her? The one who doesn't even know where our campus gym is? I once caught her doing an at-home workout in the living room and her push-up posture made me want to cry. I just can't believe this Gracie is the one who managed to throw me around like a sack of potatoes. Especially since I'm twice her height and weight. A fact that RJ and Eli won't stop pestering me about.

And apparently, they've spread the word to our entire hockey team. The second I enter the changerooms, there's a sea of half-naked guys making kissy faces at me. I ignore them all and go to my designated spot to start changing. But the hassling doesn't stop there. "Hey, Weston. I heard you got your ass kicked by a girl" Trevor snorts.

"Is it true that Gracie has a black belt in ju-jitsu?" someone else asks.

"Next time y'all have a nerf gun war, can you invite me over?" Derek laughs. "I wouldn't mind if Gracie were on top of me."

"Watch your mouth, Derek" I snap. "Unless you wanna spend the next game benched for the first half." His smile disappears when he senses I'm not joking.

The tension in the room dissipates when Chad Donovan emerges from the showers, causing steam to flow over to the main area. He's wearing a towel from the waist down, whipping another towel over his head like a helicopter. The others are chuckling and joining in. "This is gonna be me and Carrie tonight, boys. Watch. And. Learn." When he starts doing some variation of hip and pelvic thrusts, it takes all the self-control in me to not punch him. Other words are dancing around the room. Words that aren't new to me, but usually they pass one ear and go out the other. Now, my brain hyper-focuses on each one until I can't stand it anymore.

Locker room talk was never an issue for me until today. I shove two fingers into my mouth and let out a sharp whistle. Groans immediately erupt. They can sense a lecture coming on. I, however, could give less craps about what they think of me. "New rule, so listen up. From now on, locker room talk is forbidden. The next person I hear talking shit like that is getting a two-day suspension."

There's silence for a good ten seconds as everyone processes what I just said. But then it's mayhem. Hands are flying in the air, protesting my new rule. Others are complaining about how unfair it is. Chad speaks over the rest. "How do we know what constitutes locker room talk?" A murmur of 'yeahs' flood out.

"If you can't see yourself talking about your own mother or sister like that, then it counts as locker room talk" I respond.

"So then what the fuck can we talk about?" Sam Bouchard whines.

"Literally anything else." I tighten my skates, stand up and grab my stick. "That part is above my concern."

I'm aware that they're going to unload shit about me the second I leave, but it's a possibility I'm willing to risk. After all, taking on team captain comes with its fair share of shit talking. I head towards the rink with RJ and Eli in tow. "Umm, who are you and what have you done with Weston?" RJ asks.

"What can I say. I'm maturing" I mutter.

"Too bad you couldn't have matured two dozen hookups ago" Eli says with a snicker.

Practice goes well. Neither Coach Evans or John are anywhere in sight (surprise surprise) so I end up leading the team (again, shocker). As Team Captain, it's my responsibility to take over when my superiors are absent. I don't mind it, and if I'm being honest, there are some times when I prefer coaching to playing. Sure, nothing beats the thrill of the ice, but there's also nothing more rewarding than watching one of your plays work out just the way you planned. Seeing the players you've invested time and energy into improving firsthand, it mimics the feeling of making a shot.