Determination

The unused sheet of ice still sat there, still untouched. The goals sat there with no net minder, fresh white netting had been placed on them recently. I had no intention of making that beautiful freshness into a shabby, choppy mess. My stick was beside me on the bench, the gloves to my other side, and my skates thrown on the floor in pure frustration. I heard the door open, a squeaky noise, someone remind me to tell someone we need some serious oil on that thing! It was slammed loudly against the entry way. I didn’t even look, I knew who would be standing there, as aggravated with me as I was with myself.
 
“You know what I’m going to say, March.” I heard his voice and I nodded, playing with the knot on my stick, the number 77 scribbled on it by me, along with my name. My fingers felt the sleekness, and I looked into Coach Harrison’s disapproving gaze. “You’re going to have to stop throwing these tantrums at some point. You’re seventeen, this is your big chance.”
 
I spat back, “To what? Make it to the NHL? I’m a girl, they don’t want me.”
 
Coach rolled his eyes, “Get your ass off the bench and stop listening to the retards that go to your school. You have more talent than James Neal did at your age. I should know, I coached him too March. I coach stars. Scoring machines. And that’s why I’m coaching you. Because I know that you can do this.”
 
I sighed, grabbing the skates off the floor and lacing them back up. I don’t know why he believes I can actually do this. Everyone knows I can’t. I’m a GIRL. No hockey players come out of New Jersey anyway.
 
Pulling the gloves back over my hands, I grabbed my stick and skated out again, leaving scratch marks down the ice where the blades of my skates had been only moments ago. Coach Harrison looked at me expectantly. “What?” I asked, or snapped rather.
 
He shrugged, “This is what I did for James Neal and Tyler Seguin. What’s next March? To the next rookie I’m going to be saying, ‘what’s next? It’s the same question I asked March Wilson.’”
 
I looked at him nervously, “Alright, can I do some shooting?”
 
“Sure, from where?”
 
“Uh, center I guess. Can I have a goal keeper?”
 
He nodded, skating out to put on some pads and helmet, plus a goalie stick.
 
I made 48 out of 50 shots. Either Coach Harrison’s GAA isn’t very good, or maybe I’m better than I thought.
 
After the fifty shots I took, Coach Harrison threw the helmet and stick on the ground and yelled, “That’s what I’m talking about March! That right there is what Tyler Seguin WASN’T able to do! James Neal made 46, Tyler made 42. You are the first person I have ever coached to have made 48 out of 50 shots!”
 
His excitement was contagious, as I began to feel a little more pumped up myself. I skated half a victory lap before jumping up against the glass. I had lost my footing and ended up on my butt sitting on the cold ice.
 
I don’t deserve to be compared to stars in the National Hockey League, no matter how good people think I am.
 
“Alright March, how do you feel about a quick coffee break, and I can grab my goalie from home?” Coach Harrison’s 23 year old son is home for the rest of the month of July, why shouldn’t I get to take me shots on him?
 
I agreed, going into the empty locker room. I put my helmet down delicately on the bench, and dropped my gloves on the floor, taking my black and gold jersey off my back, hanging it on the door. Number 77, Wilson. I smiled at myself in the mirror. March Wilson. Maybe one day I’d be exiting the Penguins locker room, screaming my name over the speakers. March Wilson, number 77 for the Pittsburgh Penguins. I chuckled to myself, “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
 
I tore the green hair band from my mess of mangled brunette curls, letting them fall around my face, dripping with sweat from the 4 hour training session. Two more hours to go and I’m done for the day. Coach Harrison isn’t keeping me prisoner here for six hours of each day. No, it’s probably the other way around. I’m determined to be the best of the best, and whatever comes with that I will have to accept. I set my practice times the way I want them, and Coach Harrison doesn’t argue with them. His other projects had been Tyler Seguin and James Neal, he trains me the same way he trained those two NHL stars, and I trust he knows what’s best for me. He almost lets us train ourselves, we choose what we want, and he thinks that’s the best.
 
My green eyes had bags under them, and I knew I should probably just go home now if I didn’t want to regret it later. But there was hope gleaming I those eyes of mine. I unlaced my skates leaving them on the locker room floor. I put my regular ankle socks on, and took off the under armor, putting on my baggy Bruce Springsteen concert tee shirt and sweatpants.
 
Retreating from the locker room in my socks, I ordered the my coffee the way I like it, and sat down to wait, the pain shooting through my left foot. I must have landed hard on it after my celebration.
 
I rubbed it, peeling the sock off. Nah, just an ugly bruise I’d have to put up with for a few days before the pain would fully dissolve. I put my sock back on when my name was called for my coffee.
 
I took a sip, sitting on the bench, the warmth of the liquid burning my mouth a little, but nothing intolerable.
 
30 minutes later I was dressed in my hockey uniform again, across the ice from Michael Harrison, Coach Harrison’s son who is a goalie, but never decided to make a career out of hockey.
 
I shot 100 pucks, and Coach Harrison recorded how fast the puck went when it was fired into the net. I got the biscuit in the basket 97 out of 100 times.
 
Michael skated over to me. He had at least six inches on me, if not a lot more. He pulled the mask off of his head. “Holy SHIT kid!” His crystal blue eyes found mine, they were full of surprise. “I’m blown away! Nobody scores on me, I’m a great goalie! We brought James Neal back in here a few months ago, and I think he had 71 out of 100! And he’s an NHL all star! What’s your name again?” He rambled.
 
I felt a blush come to my cheeks, “Wow, thanks! I’m March Wilson.”
 
“And you said you’re only 17 years old?”

I nodded, proud that I had been able to impress this goalie, my coach’s son none the less, who obviously has some mean skills. “Kid, you’re going places!”
 
I looked at my skates, “Wow, thanks a lot! It really means a lot. It does. But I’m just a girl Michael.”
 
“A girl who’s better than James Neal, at least. Dad, you should have her shoot on like Martin Brodeur or someone like him. She’s really good!” He called across the ice to Coach Harrison.
 
2 HOURS LATER
 
I left the arena, after taking a long, warm shower which I quickly got in trouble for, after leaving Michael with no hot water what so ever.
 
I was waiting outside the arena for my mom.
 
Once she drove up, she wrinkled her nose. “Um March? Can you try and wash your gear and stuff at the rink? It makes my car smell like shit.”
 
I shrugged, “I can’t.” I leaned over the seat, chucking my bag of the disgusting smelling hockey gear in the trunk.
 
“So, how did practice go?” She asked, like she always does. Usually I give her a half hearted, ‘it was alright I guess,’ so I wonder if I took her by surprise by screaming, “It was AWESOME! Best practice ever! I’m thinking about staying eight hours tomorrow! I’m getting better Mom! Coach Harrison brought his son in, he plays goalie! I fired 100 pucks, and 97 times the goal light lit up! Can you believe it? This kid, Michael Harrison has played with James Neal and he only managed to get 71 pucks into the net!”
 
My mom nodded, “Congrats!”
 
“Congrats? CONGRATS? That’s all I get for making the biggest accomplishment of my whole entire life?” I couldn’t contain my excitement! “Today was a BIG DAY for me! Coach Harrison and Michael Harrison both told me I’m actually going to get somewhere! That this is actually something I can make a freaking career out of! I can’t even believe it!” I exploded.
 
“Alright, Alright. Sorry March.”
 
She’s NEVER excited for me, as far as my accomplishments that relate to hockey go anyway. I think she wants me to be a doctor, or a lawyer or something. But I’ve got my heart set on one goal, and I was just told that I might just be able to fulfill this dream of mine. The least she could do is look a LITTLE happier! Or maybe just pretend.
 
I pulled out my cell phone, dialing my dad’s number. “Dad! Dad!” I shrieked into my phone.
 
“I’m listening March! What’s up?” My dad replied.
 
I told him my whole story of how the hockey practice went. The difference between my mom and my dad is my dad might have been more excited than me. “Holy crap March! That’s huge! Do you realize how fu- freaking huge this is?”
 
“Fuck yeah I do!” I screamed.
 
“March, can we please cut the profanity?” Mom said in the background of my conversation.
 
I glared at her. “What the fuck Mom? There’s no damn way we can fucking get rid of my shitty bastard of a mouth.
 
I knew she was even more pissed at me now that I had just listed four swear words my younger siblings weren’t supposed to know yet, but did anyway, because of me.
 
Dad laughed, “I’ll see you when I get home and we can talk all about it! Bye march!”
 
“Later dad!” I hung up my phone, throwing it into the back seat of the car.
 
*                      *                      *                      *
 
I was in the midst of my Spanish homework when my laptop made a really loud noise. “March, email!” My 13 year old sister Kimberly called.
 
“I know, I got it!” I moved my huge blue binder out of the way, pulling my laptop onto my thighs. I moved to the couch.
 
I looked at the new emails. One from my best friend Allie Trimm, another from Michael Harrison, one a practice reminder for tomorrow, as if I could forget! But the newest was from some address penguinsGM@pittsburghpenguins.com
 
Very hesitantly, I opened the email.