Our History Will Be What We Make Of It
Chapter Two
January 3, 2009
Drapes calls her up at the beginning of January during her second season in Port Huron. It’s been only a handful of days since the Winter Classic. He says that the coaching staff noticed her impromptu practice with the Hawks as did some of the players. “I know it sounds crazy but they want you down here at the Joe. They want you to come practice with us.”
“Us? As in, the Wings?”
Drapes grunts an affirmative. “Yup. Tomorrow if you can.” She’s still got two days off before her next game.
“Only if I can swing by and see Julie and the kids. It’s been too long since you guys were up here last.” He agrees easily; of course he does. Montana loves his little ginger babies and his wife is slowly starting to not frown disapprovingly every time she appears randomly.
The next day she signs loads of forms before she’s even allowed to dress. She meets Lidstrom and Babcock. Babs explains that this is a light practice, special teams. That’s what she excels at, so she’s happy with a shortened roster. She dresses in the visitors’ room again and it feels like just yesterday that she was introduced by another coach to a new team. It’s only been a year.
This time the coach is Paul MacLean and he is the sweetest guy ever. He asks about her drive and if she’s got all her gear and then he turns his voice to the team. “Let’s see what she can do boys.”
The ‘boys’ are amazing and they put her through the ringer in a practice that leaves her sore and exhausted. She’s out on a PK with Helm, Abdelkader, and Rafalski. They’re up against Drapes, Maltby, Holmstrom, Kronwall, and Stuart. They’ve got fucking Osgood in goal. This is every wet dream she’s ever had about hockey.
She passes deep to Helm, sliding a saucer right by Stuart’s knee. Helm takes off like a bullet and she circles Drapes, holding him up. Helm’s got two guys on him. Abdelkader helps with the assist and when Rafalski clears the center lane she calls for the puck. It’s on her tape for moments before she fires it in to the mess at the front of the net. The sound of iron is unmistakable but the goal post rules in her favor.
Her arms shoot straight in the air and she shouts out, JOY. She’s just scored a shorty on one of the best power play units in the game. She even does her little moon-walk scoring dance, spinning tightly at the end. Helm picks her up off her skates, to the best of his ability, and shakes her around. Drapes skates over. “So what number do you want, kid?”
She grins. “Is nine taken?” All the guys bust up and she exhales pure joy. This isn’t the beginning, not yet. She knows she’s got miles to go and tons to learn and she hopes that she can pick at least five people’s brains before she has to go back up to Port Huron.
She gets two days of amazing practice and it’s the end of the second when she almost loses everything.
It’s no one’s fault really. Kronner hits her at a really strange angle; not even hard enough to knock her down. It twists something, though, in her right knee. She hears a terrifying pop and the pain that explodes makes her want to cry. She doesn’t cry. Not ever.
She goes back to Port Huron. Not to resume play but to let the team know that she’s lacking an ACL in her right knee and needs surgery, which the Wings will cover for her, courtesy of the insurance forms she’d filled out pre-practice on the very first day. She’s going to be off her skates for three months, minimum.
The IceHawks have to cut her. She makes some calls and pulls some strings. When January 19th rolls around she’s back in Houghton, finishing her last semester of college. She doesn’t even get to play with her old team one last time before summer shows up and she’s suddenly a college graduate.
*.*.*
June 13, 2009
The night of game seven, Montana watches in a bar with a couple of her cousins in downtown Port Huron. She’s all nerves and really glad that she hadn’t tried to get tickets to the Joe. If she’d have been in the stands for this one she would have cried. With 2 seconds left and the puck flying off Lidstrom’s stick she sucks in all the hopes and dreams of every hockey player. Fleury makes a flying save and she deflates.
She sees the sadness she feels reflected in the faces of everyone around her but it’s the sight of one of the Wings, defeated completely, which really bothers her.
The young forward she’d had so much fun playing with on the PK, Helm, is destroyed. Her heart aches for him for the entire thirty seconds she can see him skating around then off the ice. He’d been so nice to her and so damned handsome. Seeing him, like this, makes her want to hug him as though he were a stuffed animal.
Years later, she’ll remember this is the moment that she started falling in love with him.
*.*.*
August 30, 2009
270 days after her injury at the Joe, Montana takes the ice again for another try-out. She’s skating at a small off-site facility for the IceHawks and the coach is watching her closely. The team trainers are there and so is Carroll. They’re all checking her out.
She looks good and she feels good. She feels normal, again, finally. This injury put her off the ice for the longest amount of time since she started skating at age four and now it’s finally over.
She feels solid. Like her injury had never happened. As she cuts quickly across the goal and sprints to the other end of the ice, she sends up a little thanks to the Wings’ medical team. They’d taken really good care of her and quickly too. She was under the knife within five days of her injury. The beginning of her last school semester had been a little rough but she’d gotten a couple of chartered flights back to Detroit Mercy along with appointments in Houghton with a local orthopedic surgeon.
She clears the other goal and she swings around to head back to center ice. She picks up a puck, stops just past the blue line, and fires it top shelf, blocker side. It kisses the twine at the back of the net. Her grin is ear to ear and she heads back over to the bench.
“So?” She doesn’t feel as out of breath as she sounds. She’s just exhilarated.
Carroll is grinning too. Drulia has his arms crossed but she knows from her previous year that this isn’t such a terrible thing. He thinks for a minute and tilts his head to the side. “Training camp starts in a month. I expect you to shave a few more seconds off that sprint. Got me?”
If possible, her grin spreads even wider. “Sure thing Coach.”
*.*.*
February 28, 2010
There was a lot of press over the summer about her competing for Team USA in women’s hockey. The first full-time semi-professional female North American skater. That’s a mouthful she’s still working to get her mind around somehow. With her, the US was a shoe-in for the gold. But then, by July, it was obvious that she wasn’t skating yet. She was approached by the coaches and she couldn’t give them a definite answer about her plans or her training. After that, Montana was a side note, a ‘what if’.
She wouldn’t have gone anyway, she thinks. Now that she’s back on the ice she’s got games to play and records to set. It stings a little when Canada takes the gold from the US on the 25th. When the men repeat three days later she’s really sad. She watches the way Kaner mills around on the ice, notices the awkward hug between him and Jonny.
Kaner stares after his friend on the TV for what seems like an obscene amount of time and Montana thinks that she’ll be getting a call from him soon, just to mope. She hopes that he can keep his drinking to a minimum and that he doesn’t do anything stupid.
The weird thing is he never calls. Sure, he texts her back when she sends along her condolences, but it’s weeks before she really gets a chance to talk to him. By then the Cup Playoffs were about to start and he never mentioned Vancouver, not once.
*.*.*
April 12, 2010
She has a stellar second season with the IceHawks. When they enter the Game Five of the finals she’s got a +17 in the post-season. Montana likes to think that it complements the +74 she’d finished the regular season with. She plays her heart out but it’s not enough for her, for the team.
They lose in double OT because the coach calls her in on an awkward line change, leaving the left wing completely open for the long pass up ice. The Komets win. The IceHawks take second place. She’s not even all that upset. Well, she is. She always likes to win but it doesn’t crush her. After the handshakes, after she’s awarded the MVP award for the playoffs, she skates off the ice and thinks, next year.
That feeling lasts for approximately ten minutes until the team is mostly undressed and Coach calls their attention to him. “This was an amazing season guys. We set some records, managed to get the first woman in professional hockey to the playoffs, and I’ve never been prouder of a team than I am of you all. Sadly, this was the last game for the IceHawks in Port Huron.”
The guys stop what they’re doing and stare. Montana’s stomach drops. “You all know the IHL is folding into the CHL next season and the owners have decided they do not want to make the transition. This will likely be the last time you’re all in the same locker room together.”
Coach lets the information sink in and then gives them his stoic nod. Montana’s head drops.
There’s a slight scuffle at the door to the room when Coach goes to leave and she looks up to see Drapes walk in with a few of the other guys she remembers from practice the year before. Abby and Val flank him while Helmer stands by the door. They’re all looking happy to be there despite the fact that the IceHawks just lost. Despite the fact that the team’s just been fired, essentially.
Montana doesn’t think, just crosses to Drapes and gives him a long hug. Her team is used to random Red Wings visitations. They continue business as usual.
The Wings are waiting for her when she’s showered and changed. She’s last one out as usual and she gives the locker room one last look, remembering her only full season with her team. So much started here for her and she feels like this is going to be the end of her hockey career. She doesn’t really want to leave Port Huron.
“Hey kid, you all right?” She blinks away tears and gives Drapes a smile over her shoulder. Abby takes her gear bag and they head out. A night like tonight the team will be out at the bar in full force and she gives Abby directions. She needs the ten minutes of silence alone, in her own car, to really process what’s just happened before she’s forced to say good bye.
The bar is crazy; it’s Friday, of course it’s crazy. But this is the team’s bar and pretty much everyone that’s packed into the space was at the game. The Wings arrive first and there’s a really funny moment when she walks in where everyone gathered around the pros turns and looks and tries to decide if they want to bug her or keep bugging them. She lets Carroll pull her to the back and she’s three shots in before Drapes and the others catch up.
The music is loud. She drowns herself in lights and the press of bodies on the dance floor for a very long time.
Montana allows herself to feel for one minute, dehydrated from the game and dancing, while she’s buying another round. She’s at the bar, alone, staring at an IceHawks sticker that’s ended up on a mirror behind the bar. She’s been so lucky, so fortunate, that people kept taking risks for her. She doesn’t really believe there’ll be another opportunity like this waiting for her.
“Hey Montana, great game tonight. I don’t think I told you yet.” At her elbow, Helmer doesn’t have to yell. This late in the night most of the heavy drinkers are passed out and the kids have all gone home. She looks away from the sticker over to Helmer. He sits down at the bar next to her and clinks their glasses together. They both take a drink and she sighs, looking down into her glass. She thinks she might have made Captain, next year. Carroll had been talking about asking for a trade to Fort Wayne not three weeks ago.
“What are you going to do now?”
She takes a deep drink. Her fresh beer is already half gone. “I really have no idea. I’m kinda glad I’ve got my degree right now.” She slides a sad smile over to him. “Teach some unappreciative kids how to work with clay, I guess.”
He twists up his nose and frowns. “Teach? You won’t play anymore?”
“The league folded. I don’t exactly have a lot of options, ya know. It’s not like other teams have been beating at my door, looking for my skills. I’m pretty sure the hockey world views me as a strange anomaly and they’ll probably be glad I’m gone.” Her shoulders rise in an apathetic shrug that belies how much these words actually hurt her heart.
She isn’t expecting Helmer to slide off his stool and put an arm around her shoulders. She lets him and leans against his side. She’s known Helmer for almost a year and a half. She likes him on the ice and he’s always been really nice off the ice. He presses his cheek to the top of her head in a surprising display of friendship.
“You’re amazing, Montana. I think you’re underestimating your appeal, in every hockey league. You had better stats this year than some of our guys did. And what was up with that plus-minus?”
She laughs and doesn’t feel quite so much like crying. The bartender fetches her a fresh beer when she asks for one and she spends the rest of the night talking with Helmer about everything they can think of.
*.*.*
June 15, 2010
Montana isn’t able to get away for any of the Cup final games. Kaner calls and complains every time she has to blow him off but she’s busy trying to find a new job. She interviews in a dozen counties in eastern Michigan for a teaching job and it feels like no one is hiring in the state. On his last call before game six Kaner suggests she checks out Chicago-area schools too. It gives her something to think about other than the incredibly tense game on her dad’s TV.
When Kaner scores the game winner she jumps right along with him on the screen. Her dad laughs as she grabs his hands and pulls him with her. She is bursting with a joy high that she rides for almost a full week.
It comes crashing down when she gets her first call from Kaner. He sounds absolutely destroyed, emotionally. He could be really drunk too. He slurs his words between hiccups and half-sobs. She barely understands what she’s hearing but something is clearly very wrong in the land of Patrick Kane.
Her flight lands in Chicago seven hours after that call, late in the evening. She catches a cab and thinks that if she wasn’t so fucking worried she’d have been able to drive herself. It would have been a lot cheaper but it would have taken longer and she doesn’t trust herself right now.
She’s long since had a backup key to his apartment and she lets herself in. Her nose crinkles at the stench of the place. It is a disgusting, filthy mess of bottles and old take-out. She heads straight to Kaner’s bedroom knowing he’s probably curled up drunk on his bed.
This room is a mess too. It smells like a bar after close. There might be vomit on the floor. Kaner himself is motionless on the bed, sleeping off the booze most likely. She sits down next to him and cards her fingers through his hair. He’s still got that terrible mullet. “Hey Patty.” Her soft voice gets him to open his eyes and he stares up at her.
“Hey Pretty.” He’s drunk. She can smell it on him, see it in his bleary eyes and hear it in his voice. Her chest aches for her friend.
She climbs into his arms when he shifts for her and she holds him close. “What’s going on? Shouldn’t you be sleeping your way through the city’s finest puck bunnies?” It’s an old joke between them. He shrugs apathetically. “All right, then. How about gloating to all our friends? A few of the guys back home are ridiculously jealous.” Another shrug. She stops trying to get him to talk and just focusses on scratching his scalp.
“I’m in love.” She stills her movement and tries to angle her face to see his expression. A broken heart could look like this she supposes. “He doesn’t love me back.” For sure a broken heart. She starts to coo sadly but something he said trips her brain up.
“Wait, he?”
He nods into her shirt. Woah. This is unexpected. She tries to remember if Kaner had ever given off a gay vibe before. She doesn’t really think so. The only guy he ever really hangs out with anyway is Jonny-
“Fuck. You’re in love with Jonny.” One more nod and she squeezes him tighter. “Oh Pat. I am so sorry. Why didn’t you ever say anything? I wouldn’t have touched him when I came down to visit last year.”
“I didn’t know. Not until like a month ago, when we played Vancouver. Bieksa started some shit with Jonny and I fucking lost it. Jonny was holding his own but I pulled him off then went to town.” Montana remembered that fight. It’d made the high light reels for weeks. “Jonny was so angry at me for defending him but I couldn’t stop myself. I had to.”
He sighs and the sound is ragged in the otherwise silent room. “I mean, I should have realized, before then. But, like, it’s not like I’ve been sucking cock for years, ya know? I didn’t even- Fuck. I kissed him. The night we won. I kissed him and I meant it. He laughed at me and pushed me aside. Like I didn’t even matter.”
Not surprising for Jonny. He would be oblivious about something like this. “Did you talk to him? Afterwards?”
“No, I just kissed him again, like three days ago. When I finally had him alone. He really shoved me and stormed out. Now he won’t answer my calls.” He shakes in her arms, drowning in sadness and Montana holds him as tight as she can as he cries himself to sleep.
They stay wrapped around each other until morning. When he blinks his eyes open to her protective watch she gives him a smile and cups his cheek. “Good morning.”
“Does the world still suck? If so, I’m going back to sleep.”
There’s a spark of Kaner’s normal humor buried in that statement somewhere and she chuckles. He isn’t laughing, though. He is really fucked up about this. Who wouldn’t be though? “Jonny is totally oblivious and I’m sure he wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting you. You’re the fucking Spanish Inquisition of the NHL. No one expects you Patrick Kane. That’s why you’re so awesome.”
He stares up at her, expression open and fragile. “What do I do? There’s no coming back from this.”
She presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re right, there is no coming back. You can only go forward, now. And you’ve got miles ahead of you Patty. Give him some time and clean yourself up for fuck’s sake. You smell awful.”
He grins; it’s a little weak but it’s all him. “You still slept with me.”
“Anytime Kaner. You know that.” They both laugh and then she stops and gives him a sly look. “At least now I know you won’t try and get into my pants anymore. Wait, I didn’t ruin you for womankind, did I? As far as first times go I think we both got pretty lucky.”
He puffs up his chest at that and tries to flex under the sheets. The result is laughable. “I still like girls. I just happen to also like some asshole Canadians.”
“Canadians. As in plural?” It’s on the tip of her tongue to give him some very good and well thought out shit when he whacks her across the face, hard, with a pillow.
“You know what I mean, Pretty.” She watches his face and sighs in relief when she sees the lines that have been carving sadness into his skin have lifted. Kaner bounces back quick, he always has. This too will pass. He catches her looking at him and gives a sad shake of his head. “Fucking Canadians.”
“Fucking Canadians.”
She doesn’t stay much longer. Just enough to get him to take a shower and promise that hiding in a bottle will not be his solution to this problem. She opens the front door to Kaner’s place and Jonny almost hits her in the face, about to knock.
They stare at each other for a really long moment. Jonny’s been crying and hasn’t been sleeping. He looks like butter, scraped over too much bread. She hugs him too and kisses his cheek. “You go easy on him. If I have to fly back out here again I’m billing you for the hours.”
Jonny squeezes her like he should be hugging Kaner and kisses her cheek. “I’m going to try, really.” She knows he means that. The question now, she thinks, is whether Kaner will even let him.
*.*.*
July 10, 2010
Montana’s career in the NHL begins not so much with a bang but with a whimper and a serious case of right-place-right-time. She’s twenty two years old and is given a rare chance to try out during the summer two years after the Red Wings won their eleventh Stanley Cup. She pushes and turns and stick handles to the very best of her ability. She’s never met the amateur coach that’s contacted her for the try out so she doesn’t know how much of her history he knows.
“You’ve got some weakness on the right.”
She blinks at him and nods dumbly. Mr. MacDonnell gives her a long look and then sighs. “I think we should call in Babcock. He’ll want to see what you can do now.”
She joins the prospect training camp in Traverse City in July. The guys there are three, four, five years younger than her and it shows. She’s got the experience of some minor league play and college hockey. She’s a prospect but she plays like a pro. She knows it.
Montana plays hockey like some people breathe. Without thinking. There could be clichés written about her skating. Effortless like the deep breaths just before sleep. Her passing is more like a hiccup. Short and sudden. When she’s on the ice for a PK she’s almost hyperventilating and through all of this she shows off her fine ability to chirp at everyone and everything.
She even gets a couple of great checks in. Her right knee has nothing bad to say about this slightly elevated level of play and when prospect camp is over she sits down for a long one-on-one with a member of management she hasn’t met before either, Ken Holland.
He tells her that she could change history. Write history. She’s been doing that since she was ten years old and her grin is a mile wide when he suggests she finds an agent. He even helps her get set up with unrestricted free agent status less than two weeks later. She gets herself a two-way contract with the Wings and a half a million dollar paycheck that makes her Dad’s eyes bug out when she tells him.
Just like that. The first woman contracted in the NHL.
*.*.*
September 13, 2010
Press meetings are big now, for her. She’s got two dozen cameras pointed at her and another dozen microphones pressed to her face, hoping for a sound bite. This is the first day she’s practiced with the guys at camp. The players had taken it well, she’s known quite a few for almost two years. The rest are a little wary of her but nobody has been mean or anything.
“Miss Cunning, do you think you’ll be playing in the NHL immediately?”
She shakes her head and runs a towel through her hair. It’s disgusting but she’s really glad she cut it last week. It’s not in the way. That’s key. “That’s really unlikely. I’m playing well on a few lines but most of the roster is the same as it was last year. The rumor is that I’ll be over in Grand Rapids, at least in the beginning.”
“Your age ensures that you’re not entering the league as a rookie. Sad that you missed your chance at the Calder?”
“Nah, the kids can have that one. I would have made a terrible rookie. Can you imagine? An eighteen year old girl running around this much testosterone? Whew. No thank you.” That gets a laugh not only from the reporters but also from her new teammates. She’s been pretty careful about ensuring they’ll never have a chance to see her as anything but a slightly smaller d-man who loves to introduce opponents to the boards.
“What do you hope to accomplish by joining a professional men’s hockey team?” She’s used to the sneers when people ask questions like this and she levels a hard look at the reporter who asked it.
“My only goal is to play hockey to the best of my ability. I hope to be judged on that talent and not my sex. It is absolutely not my fault if I’m better at it than some of my competition.” That one gets a good chuckle from her guys.
“But it’s going to be dangerous for you.”
“Look, I’m not asking for any special favors; I’ve never been handled with kid gloves when I’ve played hockey. I played Division I in college. I can take a hit and I can give it. I am in no more physical danger than any other player on the ice. I can play. So I’m going to play.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Montana screws her face up into an ugly scowl. What an unnecessary question. “No, not really. Guys don’t like girls that beat up other guys, sometimes.”
From across the room, Abby shouts, “I’d ask you out if I wasn’t so terrified of your back check.”
Eavie backs him up. “It’s the stick I’m afraid of. Have you seen how vicious her hands are? Insane.”
“She know Swedish. Cannot get away with anything around her!” Mule punctuates this statement with a towel whipped at her head. She catches it with the side of her face and laughs. Then groans because it’s covered in sweat.
“That’s disgusting, Mule. You can keep your sweat to yourself.”
That large Swede smiles dangerously. “Better get used to it, Pretty. We hit a lot harder here.”
“Bring it on.”
She doesn’t want to leave the Wings. They’ve got her back and she’s got theirs. She clicks so well with them at training camp but Babs sends her to Grand Rapids. She’s surprised at how easy it is. She’d skated circles around the guys at in the IHL. The AHL is faster and she makes a habit of blue line goals.
When Babs calls her back up at the end of October she’s got 10 points in four games. She’s ready.
*.*.*
November 5, 2010
She’s in the shower at the Joe, crying. She is alone, the guys long gone and her back is killing her.
She’d gotten pinched along the boards deeps in the Flyers’ zone. Pronger had caught her unawares and she’d been very slow getting back up.
Kronner had taken the offense personally and had netted himself a game misconduct for his efforts. Nick had given him a dressing down in his cold and calculating angry voice in front of the whole team during the first intermission; no one should be sticking their neck out like that for legal hits no matter who the target was. Especially not when it costs them a goal. Montana had wanted to disappear into the floor. She felt like she should have seen the hit coming and avoided it.
Pronger was one of a handful of guys, though, that had targeted her over the last few weeks, since she’d started playing part time in the NHL. Her teammates were drawing penalties all over the place, trying to fight back and protect her and it made her feel horrible. College and the minors had never felt like this.
Two days earlier Helmer had busted his face open so badly on Leach’s fists that he’d been unable to play the rest of the game. That had been an interesting scrum; one of the Devils, Shanahan, had been the one to pull his own guy off and help Helmer up. Shanahan had given her a frustrated look when he’d deposited her center back to the bench to get cleaned up.
The league has both taken her in and thrown her through the grinder. It’s insanity and she doesn’t think she can keep doing this. She wasn’t expecting it to be like this.
So, she cries. She sits with her back to the tile and lets the tears drip out on their own. No sobbing. No shaking. Just the emotions of a frustrated twenty two year old in way over her head.
She doesn’t hear the footsteps until Helmer’s voice cuts through the sound of water, calling out for her gently. “Pretty, what are you doing? Are you okay?” She looks up at him and his bruised face softens instantly when he realizes she’s crying. “What’s wrong?”
The way he kneels in front of her is careful. He reaches up and shuts the water off before reaching for her towel. He drapes it around her shoulders; just moving makes her back cry out and she starts the ugly sobs.
Helmer gathers her close. He’s mindful of her back and holds her while she cries everything out. She’s shaking when she finishes, more from the now-cold tile more than the frustration and pain. Helmer leans back and looks at her face for a long while. “Better?”
She nods and sniffs, wiping off her snotty face. “Thanks.”
She’s still bundled up on the floor. “Wanna talk about it?”
Montana shakes her head and closes her eyes. She tries to calm herself down some more. Helmer had felt so comfortable and had smelled so good. He’d been totally willing to let his track pants and t-shirt get soaked just for her. He- No. She can’t think about this. She looks again and gives him a weak smile.
“I’m good.” He almost rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Just really sore from that hit.”
When he stands he crosses his arms and stays for a long minute. “It’ll get better, when people see that you can take anything they give you and that we won’t let it go unanswered.” She feels so grateful in that moment. “And if you ever want to talk, you’ve got my number.”
*.*.*
December 4, 2010
The line of French that gets fired at her makes her laugh, maniacally. She digs her skates in a little deeper and shoves hard at Lapierre’s back, trying to clear the crease. He’s just not taking no for an answer and her heart jumps when one of the Sedin robots fires one at Jimmy. Too close for comfort.
“Holy shit, get the fuck out of my crease.” Jimmy will probably yell at her later for calling it her crease, but dammit. It is hers. Lapierre pushes against her, trying to tip her off balance. She shoves into him again, willing him to move his body. Another shot comes in, dinging off the goal post to the outside. Her stomach clenches.
Babs is hollering for her to clear the crease, clear the zone. Get out of this mess. She’s trying, she really is. Another shot comes in. Jimmy saves it with the pads but it stops at her feet, at their feet. Lapierre is like a coyote, yipping and nipping, trying to poke the puck in. She gets it on her tape and then-
Botches the pass, she’s not even sure what she’s doing, sending the puck skittering along Jimmy’s pads and inside the goal.
She’s just scored on her own net.
Lapierre hoots in her face, laughing loud and so very French and she feels Jimmy whack her good along the back of her legs. That fucking hurts. Not as much as Lapierre’s gloating sneer and she is so full of guilt. So full of anger and disappointment at herself. This is all her fault; she hadn’t been able to do anything against the larger Canuck. What is she even doing here?
Lapierre wiggles his fingers in her face and taunts, “This is why you should not be playing with the men, eh, little girl?”
Fuck it, she thinks. Fuck all of it. “The refs finally miss a call in your favor and you’re gonna gloat like a shit about it?”
He might have been interfering with Jimmy. She didn’t really know. But his frown tells her that he doesn’t like her jab at his colorful past with the referees. “You see things, things that never happen.”
“All I see is a poor excuse for a forward thinking he’s got some sort of skill because he can crash the net.” He bumps up against her chest, saying, “You have no idea what you’re doing here,” and she thinks it’s weird the refs haven’t separated them yet but she’ll take the opportunity.
Lapierre has about four inches and thirty pounds on her. Montana thinks, though, that after that goal she’s probably going to get sent back down to Grand Rapids. She deserves to get sent down. Seriously, fuck it. “Want me to show you what I’m doing here?”
She raises her eyebrows, asking him if he’s ready to back up that shit talking with some action. He laughs at her and skates back. “I’m not gonna hit a girl.”
She pretty much blindsides him with a left when he goes to turn away. She gets her other glove off and follows with an upper cut. It turns out Lapierre doesn’t have to hit a woman because he’s a two-shot-and-done sort of fighter tonight. The crowd roars for her blood in Vancouver when she’s escorted to the Wings bench. Her first NHL game misconduct should feel a little sweeter, she thinks, but her entire team is looking at her like she’s an idiot. And she is.
In with a whisper and out with a bang, she supposes, as she heads back to the dressing room.
The Wings still pull out the victory, the only goal on the board for the ‘Nucks being credited to Lapierre. Babs even takes it easy on her; mistakes happen he reminds her and everyone else. Jimmy still won’t look at her and Nick is disappointed as fuck, but Bert and Abby take turns reenacting her fight and the team is laughing when they leave her to clean up.
She’s ten minutes behind the team, opening the door to the hallway from the visitors’ room. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees Lapierre leaning against the far wall. He’s got a split cheek and his lip is swollen. He’s way hotter out of his gear and she regrets, instantly, messing up his pretty face. She’s sort of worried about getting her ass kicked off the ice but the expression on his face does not suggest violence.
“Touché, Cunning. Touché.” She takes a few steps closer. “I did not expect you to be so . . . forceful.” He draws the vowels out and she melts a little. Fucking French accents. Intoxicating. He’s eyeing her in a clear sign of wanting to fuck her brains out and she likes it. She likes it a lot. He smirks harder, if possible, when he catches her eyeing his lean body. Eye candy. Sexy, French, amazing, delicious eye candy.
One of the trainers calls out her name and she turns to glance down the hall. The last of the staff is packed up and on their way out. She’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry. When she looks back at Lapierre he is impossibly close to her. She jumps and almost falls over at his sudden appearance but he slings an arm around her waist to keep her upright.
He smells spicy, but subtle, curling at the edges of her senses. He is the type of man that she could easily climb like a tree; tall, strong, sexy as fuck. “What’s your room number?”
She shakes her head, mostly to clear it, and tries to lean away. She’s going to fuck him in this hallway if he doesn’t let her go. “You’re not sneaking into my hotel room.”
Lapierre quirks an eyebrow. “That’s an empty room right over there.” He motions with his head back to the visitors’ room. He’s reading her mind now. “Or I can give you my address.” He dips his lips to her ear and the words send shivers down her spine. “Either way, I think we both know what’s going to happen tonight.” It’s a promise, shared in the small space between their lips.
Her nod is almost imperceptible. He laughs softly and slips a slip of paper into her suit pocket. “One hour? It is not too far from the bars downtown. At least not by cab. You should encourage your team to celebrate, perhaps slip out the back while they are busy with other women and alcohol.”
This is the first time she fucks someone in the NHL on the road and she gets pretty good at it by the time her birthday rolls around.
*.*.*
December 19, 2010
“You are never allowed to retire Nick. Not ever. Captain Forever. That’s what they’ll call you when I’m 80.” Nick laughs at her from across the locker room and chucks a shin guard at her. She blocks it with her foot and laughs some more. They’re alone in the room; Nick has been effortlessly teaching her how to up her game with one-on-one sessions for the last three weeks.
She’s not complaining. Not at all. She’s still sort of fresh off the farm and is so close to making 3rd line she can taste it. This training also allows her to be close to Nick. She likes being close and she’s come to terms with the fact that she’s probably in love with him. How could she not be, though? He’s almost old enough to be her father but he is sharper than guys half his age and looks like the Greek sculptures she’d blushed over in high school.
“The day comes for all of us. I’m sure mine isn’t far off.”
She doesn’t like thinking about Nick being gone. She hasn’t even played on a line with him yet. “Unacceptable.” She pulls off her chest protection and then her under armor. Her tank top is soaked. “Ugh. How do humans sweat so much?”
Nick glances up at her and she sees something in his eyes that she could almost imagine is desire. It turns her cold. There’s no way. Is there? She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls up slowly, keeping her eyes on his face. He watches her movement as she reveals her abs and then her sports bra before dropping the shirt on the floor. A drop of sweat runs its way down her hairline and disappears underneath the Spandex covering her chest.
Nick licks his lips and Montana blinks her eyes, hard. No fucking way. He looks back up to her face and there’s guilt in his expression. She would never, could never. Not with Nick. He pulls off his under armor too and she watches. Eyes glued to his torso and the way the muscle moves as he does. She wouldn’t- she just-
“Nick, I-“
He stands up suddenly and crosses the locker room to stand in front of her. He stares down at her for long and tense moments that feel monumental to her. She thinks he might try to kiss her or something ridiculous.
“You are beautiful. You are also the best female hockey player in the world and pretty soon, I’m going to make you one of the best defensemen in the world. Defense- woman. I guess. I’m here for you, as a player. As your captain. Like a brother.”
Of course it’s ridiculous because this is Nick. This is Lids and her captain and perfect. She blinks up at him owlishly after his diatribe. “I- but- what?!”
“We’re a family, here. I know you’ve had lots of families through the years but this one doesn’t allow for incest.” His meaning is clear and he even looks a little sad as he says it. “Consider me the big brother who is going to teach you everything you need to know. Consider every other guy on this team the brother that has your back and will fight for you, hard.” He narrows his eyes. “Family.”
This the day Montana swears off teammates completely, again. Lids really needed to slam that door shut for her, make her remember the promise she’d made to herself years ago. She’s here to be awesome and score lots of goals.
She plays with Lids three days later during a game against the Blackhawks. She catches Jonny good for old time’s sake; Jonny even gets her back, flattening her behind her own net. She and Lids rack up two goals apiece, all from the blue line. There’s talk of her making the All-Star game.
Drapes calls her up at the beginning of January during her second season in Port Huron. It’s been only a handful of days since the Winter Classic. He says that the coaching staff noticed her impromptu practice with the Hawks as did some of the players. “I know it sounds crazy but they want you down here at the Joe. They want you to come practice with us.”
“Us? As in, the Wings?”
Drapes grunts an affirmative. “Yup. Tomorrow if you can.” She’s still got two days off before her next game.
“Only if I can swing by and see Julie and the kids. It’s been too long since you guys were up here last.” He agrees easily; of course he does. Montana loves his little ginger babies and his wife is slowly starting to not frown disapprovingly every time she appears randomly.
The next day she signs loads of forms before she’s even allowed to dress. She meets Lidstrom and Babcock. Babs explains that this is a light practice, special teams. That’s what she excels at, so she’s happy with a shortened roster. She dresses in the visitors’ room again and it feels like just yesterday that she was introduced by another coach to a new team. It’s only been a year.
This time the coach is Paul MacLean and he is the sweetest guy ever. He asks about her drive and if she’s got all her gear and then he turns his voice to the team. “Let’s see what she can do boys.”
The ‘boys’ are amazing and they put her through the ringer in a practice that leaves her sore and exhausted. She’s out on a PK with Helm, Abdelkader, and Rafalski. They’re up against Drapes, Maltby, Holmstrom, Kronwall, and Stuart. They’ve got fucking Osgood in goal. This is every wet dream she’s ever had about hockey.
She passes deep to Helm, sliding a saucer right by Stuart’s knee. Helm takes off like a bullet and she circles Drapes, holding him up. Helm’s got two guys on him. Abdelkader helps with the assist and when Rafalski clears the center lane she calls for the puck. It’s on her tape for moments before she fires it in to the mess at the front of the net. The sound of iron is unmistakable but the goal post rules in her favor.
Her arms shoot straight in the air and she shouts out, JOY. She’s just scored a shorty on one of the best power play units in the game. She even does her little moon-walk scoring dance, spinning tightly at the end. Helm picks her up off her skates, to the best of his ability, and shakes her around. Drapes skates over. “So what number do you want, kid?”
She grins. “Is nine taken?” All the guys bust up and she exhales pure joy. This isn’t the beginning, not yet. She knows she’s got miles to go and tons to learn and she hopes that she can pick at least five people’s brains before she has to go back up to Port Huron.
She gets two days of amazing practice and it’s the end of the second when she almost loses everything.
It’s no one’s fault really. Kronner hits her at a really strange angle; not even hard enough to knock her down. It twists something, though, in her right knee. She hears a terrifying pop and the pain that explodes makes her want to cry. She doesn’t cry. Not ever.
She goes back to Port Huron. Not to resume play but to let the team know that she’s lacking an ACL in her right knee and needs surgery, which the Wings will cover for her, courtesy of the insurance forms she’d filled out pre-practice on the very first day. She’s going to be off her skates for three months, minimum.
The IceHawks have to cut her. She makes some calls and pulls some strings. When January 19th rolls around she’s back in Houghton, finishing her last semester of college. She doesn’t even get to play with her old team one last time before summer shows up and she’s suddenly a college graduate.
*.*.*
June 13, 2009
The night of game seven, Montana watches in a bar with a couple of her cousins in downtown Port Huron. She’s all nerves and really glad that she hadn’t tried to get tickets to the Joe. If she’d have been in the stands for this one she would have cried. With 2 seconds left and the puck flying off Lidstrom’s stick she sucks in all the hopes and dreams of every hockey player. Fleury makes a flying save and she deflates.
She sees the sadness she feels reflected in the faces of everyone around her but it’s the sight of one of the Wings, defeated completely, which really bothers her.
The young forward she’d had so much fun playing with on the PK, Helm, is destroyed. Her heart aches for him for the entire thirty seconds she can see him skating around then off the ice. He’d been so nice to her and so damned handsome. Seeing him, like this, makes her want to hug him as though he were a stuffed animal.
Years later, she’ll remember this is the moment that she started falling in love with him.
*.*.*
August 30, 2009
270 days after her injury at the Joe, Montana takes the ice again for another try-out. She’s skating at a small off-site facility for the IceHawks and the coach is watching her closely. The team trainers are there and so is Carroll. They’re all checking her out.
She looks good and she feels good. She feels normal, again, finally. This injury put her off the ice for the longest amount of time since she started skating at age four and now it’s finally over.
She feels solid. Like her injury had never happened. As she cuts quickly across the goal and sprints to the other end of the ice, she sends up a little thanks to the Wings’ medical team. They’d taken really good care of her and quickly too. She was under the knife within five days of her injury. The beginning of her last school semester had been a little rough but she’d gotten a couple of chartered flights back to Detroit Mercy along with appointments in Houghton with a local orthopedic surgeon.
She clears the other goal and she swings around to head back to center ice. She picks up a puck, stops just past the blue line, and fires it top shelf, blocker side. It kisses the twine at the back of the net. Her grin is ear to ear and she heads back over to the bench.
“So?” She doesn’t feel as out of breath as she sounds. She’s just exhilarated.
Carroll is grinning too. Drulia has his arms crossed but she knows from her previous year that this isn’t such a terrible thing. He thinks for a minute and tilts his head to the side. “Training camp starts in a month. I expect you to shave a few more seconds off that sprint. Got me?”
If possible, her grin spreads even wider. “Sure thing Coach.”
*.*.*
February 28, 2010
There was a lot of press over the summer about her competing for Team USA in women’s hockey. The first full-time semi-professional female North American skater. That’s a mouthful she’s still working to get her mind around somehow. With her, the US was a shoe-in for the gold. But then, by July, it was obvious that she wasn’t skating yet. She was approached by the coaches and she couldn’t give them a definite answer about her plans or her training. After that, Montana was a side note, a ‘what if’.
She wouldn’t have gone anyway, she thinks. Now that she’s back on the ice she’s got games to play and records to set. It stings a little when Canada takes the gold from the US on the 25th. When the men repeat three days later she’s really sad. She watches the way Kaner mills around on the ice, notices the awkward hug between him and Jonny.
Kaner stares after his friend on the TV for what seems like an obscene amount of time and Montana thinks that she’ll be getting a call from him soon, just to mope. She hopes that he can keep his drinking to a minimum and that he doesn’t do anything stupid.
The weird thing is he never calls. Sure, he texts her back when she sends along her condolences, but it’s weeks before she really gets a chance to talk to him. By then the Cup Playoffs were about to start and he never mentioned Vancouver, not once.
*.*.*
April 12, 2010
She has a stellar second season with the IceHawks. When they enter the Game Five of the finals she’s got a +17 in the post-season. Montana likes to think that it complements the +74 she’d finished the regular season with. She plays her heart out but it’s not enough for her, for the team.
They lose in double OT because the coach calls her in on an awkward line change, leaving the left wing completely open for the long pass up ice. The Komets win. The IceHawks take second place. She’s not even all that upset. Well, she is. She always likes to win but it doesn’t crush her. After the handshakes, after she’s awarded the MVP award for the playoffs, she skates off the ice and thinks, next year.
That feeling lasts for approximately ten minutes until the team is mostly undressed and Coach calls their attention to him. “This was an amazing season guys. We set some records, managed to get the first woman in professional hockey to the playoffs, and I’ve never been prouder of a team than I am of you all. Sadly, this was the last game for the IceHawks in Port Huron.”
The guys stop what they’re doing and stare. Montana’s stomach drops. “You all know the IHL is folding into the CHL next season and the owners have decided they do not want to make the transition. This will likely be the last time you’re all in the same locker room together.”
Coach lets the information sink in and then gives them his stoic nod. Montana’s head drops.
There’s a slight scuffle at the door to the room when Coach goes to leave and she looks up to see Drapes walk in with a few of the other guys she remembers from practice the year before. Abby and Val flank him while Helmer stands by the door. They’re all looking happy to be there despite the fact that the IceHawks just lost. Despite the fact that the team’s just been fired, essentially.
Montana doesn’t think, just crosses to Drapes and gives him a long hug. Her team is used to random Red Wings visitations. They continue business as usual.
The Wings are waiting for her when she’s showered and changed. She’s last one out as usual and she gives the locker room one last look, remembering her only full season with her team. So much started here for her and she feels like this is going to be the end of her hockey career. She doesn’t really want to leave Port Huron.
“Hey kid, you all right?” She blinks away tears and gives Drapes a smile over her shoulder. Abby takes her gear bag and they head out. A night like tonight the team will be out at the bar in full force and she gives Abby directions. She needs the ten minutes of silence alone, in her own car, to really process what’s just happened before she’s forced to say good bye.
The bar is crazy; it’s Friday, of course it’s crazy. But this is the team’s bar and pretty much everyone that’s packed into the space was at the game. The Wings arrive first and there’s a really funny moment when she walks in where everyone gathered around the pros turns and looks and tries to decide if they want to bug her or keep bugging them. She lets Carroll pull her to the back and she’s three shots in before Drapes and the others catch up.
The music is loud. She drowns herself in lights and the press of bodies on the dance floor for a very long time.
Montana allows herself to feel for one minute, dehydrated from the game and dancing, while she’s buying another round. She’s at the bar, alone, staring at an IceHawks sticker that’s ended up on a mirror behind the bar. She’s been so lucky, so fortunate, that people kept taking risks for her. She doesn’t really believe there’ll be another opportunity like this waiting for her.
“Hey Montana, great game tonight. I don’t think I told you yet.” At her elbow, Helmer doesn’t have to yell. This late in the night most of the heavy drinkers are passed out and the kids have all gone home. She looks away from the sticker over to Helmer. He sits down at the bar next to her and clinks their glasses together. They both take a drink and she sighs, looking down into her glass. She thinks she might have made Captain, next year. Carroll had been talking about asking for a trade to Fort Wayne not three weeks ago.
“What are you going to do now?”
She takes a deep drink. Her fresh beer is already half gone. “I really have no idea. I’m kinda glad I’ve got my degree right now.” She slides a sad smile over to him. “Teach some unappreciative kids how to work with clay, I guess.”
He twists up his nose and frowns. “Teach? You won’t play anymore?”
“The league folded. I don’t exactly have a lot of options, ya know. It’s not like other teams have been beating at my door, looking for my skills. I’m pretty sure the hockey world views me as a strange anomaly and they’ll probably be glad I’m gone.” Her shoulders rise in an apathetic shrug that belies how much these words actually hurt her heart.
She isn’t expecting Helmer to slide off his stool and put an arm around her shoulders. She lets him and leans against his side. She’s known Helmer for almost a year and a half. She likes him on the ice and he’s always been really nice off the ice. He presses his cheek to the top of her head in a surprising display of friendship.
“You’re amazing, Montana. I think you’re underestimating your appeal, in every hockey league. You had better stats this year than some of our guys did. And what was up with that plus-minus?”
She laughs and doesn’t feel quite so much like crying. The bartender fetches her a fresh beer when she asks for one and she spends the rest of the night talking with Helmer about everything they can think of.
*.*.*
June 15, 2010
Montana isn’t able to get away for any of the Cup final games. Kaner calls and complains every time she has to blow him off but she’s busy trying to find a new job. She interviews in a dozen counties in eastern Michigan for a teaching job and it feels like no one is hiring in the state. On his last call before game six Kaner suggests she checks out Chicago-area schools too. It gives her something to think about other than the incredibly tense game on her dad’s TV.
When Kaner scores the game winner she jumps right along with him on the screen. Her dad laughs as she grabs his hands and pulls him with her. She is bursting with a joy high that she rides for almost a full week.
It comes crashing down when she gets her first call from Kaner. He sounds absolutely destroyed, emotionally. He could be really drunk too. He slurs his words between hiccups and half-sobs. She barely understands what she’s hearing but something is clearly very wrong in the land of Patrick Kane.
Her flight lands in Chicago seven hours after that call, late in the evening. She catches a cab and thinks that if she wasn’t so fucking worried she’d have been able to drive herself. It would have been a lot cheaper but it would have taken longer and she doesn’t trust herself right now.
She’s long since had a backup key to his apartment and she lets herself in. Her nose crinkles at the stench of the place. It is a disgusting, filthy mess of bottles and old take-out. She heads straight to Kaner’s bedroom knowing he’s probably curled up drunk on his bed.
This room is a mess too. It smells like a bar after close. There might be vomit on the floor. Kaner himself is motionless on the bed, sleeping off the booze most likely. She sits down next to him and cards her fingers through his hair. He’s still got that terrible mullet. “Hey Patty.” Her soft voice gets him to open his eyes and he stares up at her.
“Hey Pretty.” He’s drunk. She can smell it on him, see it in his bleary eyes and hear it in his voice. Her chest aches for her friend.
She climbs into his arms when he shifts for her and she holds him close. “What’s going on? Shouldn’t you be sleeping your way through the city’s finest puck bunnies?” It’s an old joke between them. He shrugs apathetically. “All right, then. How about gloating to all our friends? A few of the guys back home are ridiculously jealous.” Another shrug. She stops trying to get him to talk and just focusses on scratching his scalp.
“I’m in love.” She stills her movement and tries to angle her face to see his expression. A broken heart could look like this she supposes. “He doesn’t love me back.” For sure a broken heart. She starts to coo sadly but something he said trips her brain up.
“Wait, he?”
He nods into her shirt. Woah. This is unexpected. She tries to remember if Kaner had ever given off a gay vibe before. She doesn’t really think so. The only guy he ever really hangs out with anyway is Jonny-
“Fuck. You’re in love with Jonny.” One more nod and she squeezes him tighter. “Oh Pat. I am so sorry. Why didn’t you ever say anything? I wouldn’t have touched him when I came down to visit last year.”
“I didn’t know. Not until like a month ago, when we played Vancouver. Bieksa started some shit with Jonny and I fucking lost it. Jonny was holding his own but I pulled him off then went to town.” Montana remembered that fight. It’d made the high light reels for weeks. “Jonny was so angry at me for defending him but I couldn’t stop myself. I had to.”
He sighs and the sound is ragged in the otherwise silent room. “I mean, I should have realized, before then. But, like, it’s not like I’ve been sucking cock for years, ya know? I didn’t even- Fuck. I kissed him. The night we won. I kissed him and I meant it. He laughed at me and pushed me aside. Like I didn’t even matter.”
Not surprising for Jonny. He would be oblivious about something like this. “Did you talk to him? Afterwards?”
“No, I just kissed him again, like three days ago. When I finally had him alone. He really shoved me and stormed out. Now he won’t answer my calls.” He shakes in her arms, drowning in sadness and Montana holds him as tight as she can as he cries himself to sleep.
They stay wrapped around each other until morning. When he blinks his eyes open to her protective watch she gives him a smile and cups his cheek. “Good morning.”
“Does the world still suck? If so, I’m going back to sleep.”
There’s a spark of Kaner’s normal humor buried in that statement somewhere and she chuckles. He isn’t laughing, though. He is really fucked up about this. Who wouldn’t be though? “Jonny is totally oblivious and I’m sure he wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting you. You’re the fucking Spanish Inquisition of the NHL. No one expects you Patrick Kane. That’s why you’re so awesome.”
He stares up at her, expression open and fragile. “What do I do? There’s no coming back from this.”
She presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re right, there is no coming back. You can only go forward, now. And you’ve got miles ahead of you Patty. Give him some time and clean yourself up for fuck’s sake. You smell awful.”
He grins; it’s a little weak but it’s all him. “You still slept with me.”
“Anytime Kaner. You know that.” They both laugh and then she stops and gives him a sly look. “At least now I know you won’t try and get into my pants anymore. Wait, I didn’t ruin you for womankind, did I? As far as first times go I think we both got pretty lucky.”
He puffs up his chest at that and tries to flex under the sheets. The result is laughable. “I still like girls. I just happen to also like some asshole Canadians.”
“Canadians. As in plural?” It’s on the tip of her tongue to give him some very good and well thought out shit when he whacks her across the face, hard, with a pillow.
“You know what I mean, Pretty.” She watches his face and sighs in relief when she sees the lines that have been carving sadness into his skin have lifted. Kaner bounces back quick, he always has. This too will pass. He catches her looking at him and gives a sad shake of his head. “Fucking Canadians.”
“Fucking Canadians.”
She doesn’t stay much longer. Just enough to get him to take a shower and promise that hiding in a bottle will not be his solution to this problem. She opens the front door to Kaner’s place and Jonny almost hits her in the face, about to knock.
They stare at each other for a really long moment. Jonny’s been crying and hasn’t been sleeping. He looks like butter, scraped over too much bread. She hugs him too and kisses his cheek. “You go easy on him. If I have to fly back out here again I’m billing you for the hours.”
Jonny squeezes her like he should be hugging Kaner and kisses her cheek. “I’m going to try, really.” She knows he means that. The question now, she thinks, is whether Kaner will even let him.
*.*.*
July 10, 2010
Montana’s career in the NHL begins not so much with a bang but with a whimper and a serious case of right-place-right-time. She’s twenty two years old and is given a rare chance to try out during the summer two years after the Red Wings won their eleventh Stanley Cup. She pushes and turns and stick handles to the very best of her ability. She’s never met the amateur coach that’s contacted her for the try out so she doesn’t know how much of her history he knows.
“You’ve got some weakness on the right.”
She blinks at him and nods dumbly. Mr. MacDonnell gives her a long look and then sighs. “I think we should call in Babcock. He’ll want to see what you can do now.”
She joins the prospect training camp in Traverse City in July. The guys there are three, four, five years younger than her and it shows. She’s got the experience of some minor league play and college hockey. She’s a prospect but she plays like a pro. She knows it.
Montana plays hockey like some people breathe. Without thinking. There could be clichés written about her skating. Effortless like the deep breaths just before sleep. Her passing is more like a hiccup. Short and sudden. When she’s on the ice for a PK she’s almost hyperventilating and through all of this she shows off her fine ability to chirp at everyone and everything.
She even gets a couple of great checks in. Her right knee has nothing bad to say about this slightly elevated level of play and when prospect camp is over she sits down for a long one-on-one with a member of management she hasn’t met before either, Ken Holland.
He tells her that she could change history. Write history. She’s been doing that since she was ten years old and her grin is a mile wide when he suggests she finds an agent. He even helps her get set up with unrestricted free agent status less than two weeks later. She gets herself a two-way contract with the Wings and a half a million dollar paycheck that makes her Dad’s eyes bug out when she tells him.
Just like that. The first woman contracted in the NHL.
*.*.*
September 13, 2010
Press meetings are big now, for her. She’s got two dozen cameras pointed at her and another dozen microphones pressed to her face, hoping for a sound bite. This is the first day she’s practiced with the guys at camp. The players had taken it well, she’s known quite a few for almost two years. The rest are a little wary of her but nobody has been mean or anything.
“Miss Cunning, do you think you’ll be playing in the NHL immediately?”
She shakes her head and runs a towel through her hair. It’s disgusting but she’s really glad she cut it last week. It’s not in the way. That’s key. “That’s really unlikely. I’m playing well on a few lines but most of the roster is the same as it was last year. The rumor is that I’ll be over in Grand Rapids, at least in the beginning.”
“Your age ensures that you’re not entering the league as a rookie. Sad that you missed your chance at the Calder?”
“Nah, the kids can have that one. I would have made a terrible rookie. Can you imagine? An eighteen year old girl running around this much testosterone? Whew. No thank you.” That gets a laugh not only from the reporters but also from her new teammates. She’s been pretty careful about ensuring they’ll never have a chance to see her as anything but a slightly smaller d-man who loves to introduce opponents to the boards.
“What do you hope to accomplish by joining a professional men’s hockey team?” She’s used to the sneers when people ask questions like this and she levels a hard look at the reporter who asked it.
“My only goal is to play hockey to the best of my ability. I hope to be judged on that talent and not my sex. It is absolutely not my fault if I’m better at it than some of my competition.” That one gets a good chuckle from her guys.
“But it’s going to be dangerous for you.”
“Look, I’m not asking for any special favors; I’ve never been handled with kid gloves when I’ve played hockey. I played Division I in college. I can take a hit and I can give it. I am in no more physical danger than any other player on the ice. I can play. So I’m going to play.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Montana screws her face up into an ugly scowl. What an unnecessary question. “No, not really. Guys don’t like girls that beat up other guys, sometimes.”
From across the room, Abby shouts, “I’d ask you out if I wasn’t so terrified of your back check.”
Eavie backs him up. “It’s the stick I’m afraid of. Have you seen how vicious her hands are? Insane.”
“She know Swedish. Cannot get away with anything around her!” Mule punctuates this statement with a towel whipped at her head. She catches it with the side of her face and laughs. Then groans because it’s covered in sweat.
“That’s disgusting, Mule. You can keep your sweat to yourself.”
That large Swede smiles dangerously. “Better get used to it, Pretty. We hit a lot harder here.”
“Bring it on.”
She doesn’t want to leave the Wings. They’ve got her back and she’s got theirs. She clicks so well with them at training camp but Babs sends her to Grand Rapids. She’s surprised at how easy it is. She’d skated circles around the guys at in the IHL. The AHL is faster and she makes a habit of blue line goals.
When Babs calls her back up at the end of October she’s got 10 points in four games. She’s ready.
*.*.*
November 5, 2010
She’s in the shower at the Joe, crying. She is alone, the guys long gone and her back is killing her.
She’d gotten pinched along the boards deeps in the Flyers’ zone. Pronger had caught her unawares and she’d been very slow getting back up.
Kronner had taken the offense personally and had netted himself a game misconduct for his efforts. Nick had given him a dressing down in his cold and calculating angry voice in front of the whole team during the first intermission; no one should be sticking their neck out like that for legal hits no matter who the target was. Especially not when it costs them a goal. Montana had wanted to disappear into the floor. She felt like she should have seen the hit coming and avoided it.
Pronger was one of a handful of guys, though, that had targeted her over the last few weeks, since she’d started playing part time in the NHL. Her teammates were drawing penalties all over the place, trying to fight back and protect her and it made her feel horrible. College and the minors had never felt like this.
Two days earlier Helmer had busted his face open so badly on Leach’s fists that he’d been unable to play the rest of the game. That had been an interesting scrum; one of the Devils, Shanahan, had been the one to pull his own guy off and help Helmer up. Shanahan had given her a frustrated look when he’d deposited her center back to the bench to get cleaned up.
The league has both taken her in and thrown her through the grinder. It’s insanity and she doesn’t think she can keep doing this. She wasn’t expecting it to be like this.
So, she cries. She sits with her back to the tile and lets the tears drip out on their own. No sobbing. No shaking. Just the emotions of a frustrated twenty two year old in way over her head.
She doesn’t hear the footsteps until Helmer’s voice cuts through the sound of water, calling out for her gently. “Pretty, what are you doing? Are you okay?” She looks up at him and his bruised face softens instantly when he realizes she’s crying. “What’s wrong?”
The way he kneels in front of her is careful. He reaches up and shuts the water off before reaching for her towel. He drapes it around her shoulders; just moving makes her back cry out and she starts the ugly sobs.
Helmer gathers her close. He’s mindful of her back and holds her while she cries everything out. She’s shaking when she finishes, more from the now-cold tile more than the frustration and pain. Helmer leans back and looks at her face for a long while. “Better?”
She nods and sniffs, wiping off her snotty face. “Thanks.”
She’s still bundled up on the floor. “Wanna talk about it?”
Montana shakes her head and closes her eyes. She tries to calm herself down some more. Helmer had felt so comfortable and had smelled so good. He’d been totally willing to let his track pants and t-shirt get soaked just for her. He- No. She can’t think about this. She looks again and gives him a weak smile.
“I’m good.” He almost rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Just really sore from that hit.”
When he stands he crosses his arms and stays for a long minute. “It’ll get better, when people see that you can take anything they give you and that we won’t let it go unanswered.” She feels so grateful in that moment. “And if you ever want to talk, you’ve got my number.”
*.*.*
December 4, 2010
The line of French that gets fired at her makes her laugh, maniacally. She digs her skates in a little deeper and shoves hard at Lapierre’s back, trying to clear the crease. He’s just not taking no for an answer and her heart jumps when one of the Sedin robots fires one at Jimmy. Too close for comfort.
“Holy shit, get the fuck out of my crease.” Jimmy will probably yell at her later for calling it her crease, but dammit. It is hers. Lapierre pushes against her, trying to tip her off balance. She shoves into him again, willing him to move his body. Another shot comes in, dinging off the goal post to the outside. Her stomach clenches.
Babs is hollering for her to clear the crease, clear the zone. Get out of this mess. She’s trying, she really is. Another shot comes in. Jimmy saves it with the pads but it stops at her feet, at their feet. Lapierre is like a coyote, yipping and nipping, trying to poke the puck in. She gets it on her tape and then-
Botches the pass, she’s not even sure what she’s doing, sending the puck skittering along Jimmy’s pads and inside the goal.
She’s just scored on her own net.
Lapierre hoots in her face, laughing loud and so very French and she feels Jimmy whack her good along the back of her legs. That fucking hurts. Not as much as Lapierre’s gloating sneer and she is so full of guilt. So full of anger and disappointment at herself. This is all her fault; she hadn’t been able to do anything against the larger Canuck. What is she even doing here?
Lapierre wiggles his fingers in her face and taunts, “This is why you should not be playing with the men, eh, little girl?”
Fuck it, she thinks. Fuck all of it. “The refs finally miss a call in your favor and you’re gonna gloat like a shit about it?”
He might have been interfering with Jimmy. She didn’t really know. But his frown tells her that he doesn’t like her jab at his colorful past with the referees. “You see things, things that never happen.”
“All I see is a poor excuse for a forward thinking he’s got some sort of skill because he can crash the net.” He bumps up against her chest, saying, “You have no idea what you’re doing here,” and she thinks it’s weird the refs haven’t separated them yet but she’ll take the opportunity.
Lapierre has about four inches and thirty pounds on her. Montana thinks, though, that after that goal she’s probably going to get sent back down to Grand Rapids. She deserves to get sent down. Seriously, fuck it. “Want me to show you what I’m doing here?”
She raises her eyebrows, asking him if he’s ready to back up that shit talking with some action. He laughs at her and skates back. “I’m not gonna hit a girl.”
She pretty much blindsides him with a left when he goes to turn away. She gets her other glove off and follows with an upper cut. It turns out Lapierre doesn’t have to hit a woman because he’s a two-shot-and-done sort of fighter tonight. The crowd roars for her blood in Vancouver when she’s escorted to the Wings bench. Her first NHL game misconduct should feel a little sweeter, she thinks, but her entire team is looking at her like she’s an idiot. And she is.
In with a whisper and out with a bang, she supposes, as she heads back to the dressing room.
The Wings still pull out the victory, the only goal on the board for the ‘Nucks being credited to Lapierre. Babs even takes it easy on her; mistakes happen he reminds her and everyone else. Jimmy still won’t look at her and Nick is disappointed as fuck, but Bert and Abby take turns reenacting her fight and the team is laughing when they leave her to clean up.
She’s ten minutes behind the team, opening the door to the hallway from the visitors’ room. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees Lapierre leaning against the far wall. He’s got a split cheek and his lip is swollen. He’s way hotter out of his gear and she regrets, instantly, messing up his pretty face. She’s sort of worried about getting her ass kicked off the ice but the expression on his face does not suggest violence.
“Touché, Cunning. Touché.” She takes a few steps closer. “I did not expect you to be so . . . forceful.” He draws the vowels out and she melts a little. Fucking French accents. Intoxicating. He’s eyeing her in a clear sign of wanting to fuck her brains out and she likes it. She likes it a lot. He smirks harder, if possible, when he catches her eyeing his lean body. Eye candy. Sexy, French, amazing, delicious eye candy.
One of the trainers calls out her name and she turns to glance down the hall. The last of the staff is packed up and on their way out. She’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry. When she looks back at Lapierre he is impossibly close to her. She jumps and almost falls over at his sudden appearance but he slings an arm around her waist to keep her upright.
He smells spicy, but subtle, curling at the edges of her senses. He is the type of man that she could easily climb like a tree; tall, strong, sexy as fuck. “What’s your room number?”
She shakes her head, mostly to clear it, and tries to lean away. She’s going to fuck him in this hallway if he doesn’t let her go. “You’re not sneaking into my hotel room.”
Lapierre quirks an eyebrow. “That’s an empty room right over there.” He motions with his head back to the visitors’ room. He’s reading her mind now. “Or I can give you my address.” He dips his lips to her ear and the words send shivers down her spine. “Either way, I think we both know what’s going to happen tonight.” It’s a promise, shared in the small space between their lips.
Her nod is almost imperceptible. He laughs softly and slips a slip of paper into her suit pocket. “One hour? It is not too far from the bars downtown. At least not by cab. You should encourage your team to celebrate, perhaps slip out the back while they are busy with other women and alcohol.”
This is the first time she fucks someone in the NHL on the road and she gets pretty good at it by the time her birthday rolls around.
*.*.*
December 19, 2010
“You are never allowed to retire Nick. Not ever. Captain Forever. That’s what they’ll call you when I’m 80.” Nick laughs at her from across the locker room and chucks a shin guard at her. She blocks it with her foot and laughs some more. They’re alone in the room; Nick has been effortlessly teaching her how to up her game with one-on-one sessions for the last three weeks.
She’s not complaining. Not at all. She’s still sort of fresh off the farm and is so close to making 3rd line she can taste it. This training also allows her to be close to Nick. She likes being close and she’s come to terms with the fact that she’s probably in love with him. How could she not be, though? He’s almost old enough to be her father but he is sharper than guys half his age and looks like the Greek sculptures she’d blushed over in high school.
“The day comes for all of us. I’m sure mine isn’t far off.”
She doesn’t like thinking about Nick being gone. She hasn’t even played on a line with him yet. “Unacceptable.” She pulls off her chest protection and then her under armor. Her tank top is soaked. “Ugh. How do humans sweat so much?”
Nick glances up at her and she sees something in his eyes that she could almost imagine is desire. It turns her cold. There’s no way. Is there? She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls up slowly, keeping her eyes on his face. He watches her movement as she reveals her abs and then her sports bra before dropping the shirt on the floor. A drop of sweat runs its way down her hairline and disappears underneath the Spandex covering her chest.
Nick licks his lips and Montana blinks her eyes, hard. No fucking way. He looks back up to her face and there’s guilt in his expression. She would never, could never. Not with Nick. He pulls off his under armor too and she watches. Eyes glued to his torso and the way the muscle moves as he does. She wouldn’t- she just-
“Nick, I-“
He stands up suddenly and crosses the locker room to stand in front of her. He stares down at her for long and tense moments that feel monumental to her. She thinks he might try to kiss her or something ridiculous.
“You are beautiful. You are also the best female hockey player in the world and pretty soon, I’m going to make you one of the best defensemen in the world. Defense- woman. I guess. I’m here for you, as a player. As your captain. Like a brother.”
Of course it’s ridiculous because this is Nick. This is Lids and her captain and perfect. She blinks up at him owlishly after his diatribe. “I- but- what?!”
“We’re a family, here. I know you’ve had lots of families through the years but this one doesn’t allow for incest.” His meaning is clear and he even looks a little sad as he says it. “Consider me the big brother who is going to teach you everything you need to know. Consider every other guy on this team the brother that has your back and will fight for you, hard.” He narrows his eyes. “Family.”
This the day Montana swears off teammates completely, again. Lids really needed to slam that door shut for her, make her remember the promise she’d made to herself years ago. She’s here to be awesome and score lots of goals.
She plays with Lids three days later during a game against the Blackhawks. She catches Jonny good for old time’s sake; Jonny even gets her back, flattening her behind her own net. She and Lids rack up two goals apiece, all from the blue line. There’s talk of her making the All-Star game.
2/9/13