The Girl In All-Boy Hockey Team

Jane Come on, Jane. Just act normal. Blend in. Don’t let anyone figure out you’re a girl. I gave myself a silent pep talk, steeling my nerves as I walked just carefully enough to keep a sliver of space between me and the rest of the group - far enough not to look obvious, close enough not to look like I was hiding. They were laughing, bumping shoulders, clinking half-empty beer cans together like they were old friends. Someone was tossing cans at a makeshift trash bag tied to a crooked pine branch, and every time one missed and hit the ground, they’d howl with laughter like it was the funniest thing in the world. I was staying out of reach - pretending to be aloof, like I just didn’t care for their antics. Why do guys like this kind of thing? Isn’t it exhausting? I kept my face blank, jaw tight, eyes drifting like I was bored. But inside, I was on edge. Watching every move. Calculating every step. Every time someone looked like they might get too friendly, I was shifting left or right, finding some excuse to bend down, tie my shoe, or adjust my backpack strap. I couldn’t let them get too close. Couldn’t let them touch me. I was working overtime to make my distance look natural. One of the guys, Dylan, I think, was reaching out to clap me on the back as we were moving along the trail. I was ducking under a low-hanging branch at just the right moment, already tilting my shoulders sideways, avoiding his hand like it was nothing. I kept walking like I hadn’t even noticed him trying. But I had. I noticed everything. I had been doing that all afternoon - dodging, slipping, weaving through interactions like I was skating through a minefield. Whenever someone leaned too close, I found a way to lean out. When they walked in pairs, I kept to myself, kicking at twigs or pretending to check the camp map they had handed out earlier. I thought I just needed to train like a man - not camp, bond, and dodge hugs in the woods. It was exhausting. Then someone teased about all the guys heading down to the stream later to wash off the day’s sweat - I was laughing like the rest of them, even as my stomach turned. “Not a fan of fish water,” I had said with a snort, tugging my cap lower over my eyes like the sun was in them. I didn’t let my voice shake. I didn’t let my eyes dart. That had earned a laugh. One of the guys elbowed another and made a comment about city boys being soft. I let them run with that. Good. Let them believe whatever they wanted. Better to be weird than suspicious. I hate camping, I thought bitterly - then sighed inwardly. Well… I don’t hate camping. I just hate this camping. I can’t relax at all. And that was the truth. Every second was a test. Every step a performance. Because while they saw a guy named James Dawson, hockey player from UMass Boston, what they were really looking at… was a girl trying not to lose everything. Sweat prickled under the layers I wore, the weight of my binder making it harder to breathe with each passing hour. I hated camping. I hated the heat, the group bonding, the fake laughs. But most of all, I hated that I couldn’t say no. It had only been a week since training started, and already I was pushing limits I hadn’t anticipated. I had begged for an outdoor housing exception so I wouldn’t have to share a dorm room or explain why I never showered at the locker room. I’d carved every lie and workaround with surgical precision. And now I was here, in the woods, surrounded by drunk, shirtless teammates who thought I was just another guy. I was pretending to be James. My twin. My mirror in almost everything except for one key difference - he was allowed to be here. I wasn’t. With every step I was taking on this trip, I was playing a role. I always preferred stuffing myself into baggy clothes and cutting my hair short, and now - it was playing in my favor. For my goal, I had learned to speak just enough like him to pass the casual chats. I was keeping my towel tightly rolled in my bag, never letting it slip. I was changing carefully in my tent or in a bush far from the others, then walking back like nothing was wrong. Like I hadn’t spent ten minutes panicking over whether I wrapped my chest tight enough to hide what I was. I was doing all of that just for the chance to skate. “My school barley have a real rink,” I had told my best friend Mia when I first showed her the registration form. “You’re insane, Jane,” she told me. “Maybe,” I had said. “But I’m not letting this chance slip.” I had grown up watching hockey with my dad before he passed. Playing on the neighborhood team, never fitting in with the girls, being too good for the boys to accept me. I wasn’t just loving hockey. I needed it. And now I was here - three months of summer training at Boston University, the best program in the state. A scholarship program I wasn’t allowed to apply for. Because I wasn’t a guy. I was one week in. And so far, no one had noticed. I was telling myself I just needed to keep going. If I could avoid changing in front of them, avoid getting too friendly, avoid the dozens of ways this could blow up in my face - I could make it. The fire crackled in the clearing. I was sitting a little off to the side, arms folded, watching the others as they passed around bottles of cheap beer and bags of half-burned marshmallows. Lucas handed me a can of beer. “C’mon, Dawson. Loosen up.” I faked a grin. “One drink won’t kill me.” I pretended to take a long sip, letting just enough touch my tongue to smell bitter and metallic. I hated beer. But refusing was worse. I was acting like I was relaxing, stretching out my legs, tipping the can again without swallowing much. But before I noticed, someone was passing me another can, and then another. Someone bumped into my shoulder. I was flinching, just barely, but enough to shift away. “Man, you’re tense,” another guy was saying. “Chill out.” “Yeah, yeah,” I had mumbled. My head was starting to spin. Maybe the alcohol was getting to me after all. Or maybe it was just the heat from the fire and the pressure building behind my temples. I mumbled something about needing to crash early and stumbled toward the tents, weaving past tree trunks like they were moving targets. “Wrong way, man!” someone called behind me. I waved them off. “Gotta take a leak first.” The tents were all the same dull green. I thought mine was the third one from the firepit, or maybe the fourth? My vision wasn’t cooperating. The zipper on the tent flap stuck before giving way with a wheeze of nylon. I collapsed onto the nearest sleeping bag, letting the exhaustion pull me under. “Dodged a bullet again,” I murmured to no one, letting the words slur out as I curled on my side. “Still just one of the boys.” I stared at the tent ceiling, the stars muffled behind fabric and faint condensation. My chest ached - not just from the binder, but from the sheer effort of pretending. “Stupid,” I muttered. “Stupid dream, stupid me… Should’ve joined a chess club.” The baggy hoodie I wore was clinging to me like a second skin, and I wriggled one arm free. The next followed. I was too warm, too dizzy. I sat up, fumbling at the hem of my shirt, trying to get some air to my skin. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. There was a sound - sharp and sudden. A rustle. A breath. Then I saw him. A figure, already upright, eyes reflecting the pale light from the fire outside. His presence filled the tent like a thunderclap. My pulse seized in my throat. My voice caught. I opened my mouth, ready to scream— And then his hand was over it.