Skate Into My Body

Chapter 3: Put On the Pads or DieUntitled Episode

Riley stood stock-still in the center of the hockey locker room, staring down at the massive pile of pads, skates, and gear that lay out across the floor in front of her. The locker room itself smelled of stale sweat, damp socks, and something that was roughly rotten cheese. Her nose wrinkled.

"Is this. normal?" she snarled.

Connor—the meat of her own, now the ghost of Captain Ice Block—stood against the wall, arms crossed and an expression of anticipation on his (her?) face.

"You've got five minutes," he announced in feigned gravity. "Get ready or face the wrath of Coach Daniels. And believe me, you'd rather be Zambonied."

Riley grabbed what seemed to be shoulder pads and stared at them like a planet in a distant galaxy. "I'm going to have to figure out how to do this through a YouTube tutorial, I think."

Connor shivered. "Compression shirt. Then pads. Then pants. Then socks, shin guards, skates, elbow pads, jersey, gloves, helmet."

"Ahhhh-mazing, ah-mazing, ah-mazing," Riley griped, his voice on the edge of madness. "So I'm essentially constructing a human tank."

"Welcome to my life."

She grappled with giving him the tight black top, not wanting to give herself an excuse for why he was wearing his shirt. Her chubby fingers shook. Her long arms. Her balance point now at her kneecaps. But still, after what was like forever and a lot of grunt work, she was properly dressed.

Of sorts.

The pads were crooked. The jersey was inside out. One skate was tighter than the other. But she was moving. That had to count for something.

Then came the moment of truth.

She stepped onto the ice.

And immediately slipped.

“AHH—”

THUD.

Her helmeted head bounced lightly against the boards, and she landed flat on her back like a dropped pancake.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “I’m gonna die out here.”

The bench cracked up. A few of the teammates were glaring at her, speechless, but most were laughing.

"Yo, Blake, you cool, man?" somebody yelled. "You're gliding like Bambi on skates!"

"I'm great!" she yelled back, not making it up. "Just testing gravity!"

Connor rolled over to her, balancing flawlessly, beautiful as if he were born with skates on his feet. He took a knee and scowled.

You're embarrassing me," he growled. "Correction—you're embarrassing you."

"Well, sorry if I'm not a pro," she snapped, attempting to stand up. "Do you remember how long it took me to get eyeliner? That one was a struggle too."

Connor didn't respond to that. "Just copy me. Don't think. Push off on one foot, glide on the other. Knees bent, back straight.".

Riley hopped up again, in small, tentative steps. She followed him out onto the ice, imitating. For a moment, she was positive she'd really done it—

Then her left foot went flying.

"NOPE!"

CRASH.

Face-first this time. Her helmet cracked sharply on the rink surface, and a few of the players winced.

"Dude," Logan asked a teammate, "is Blake concussed or what?"

Connor screwed up his face, skating in reverse. "Okay, okay. Time-out. Maybe we should do something else."

"I second that we just give up and cry in a corner," Riley grumbled, standing up once more. "You can just tell your coach you're jinxed.".

Connor didn't grin. "You don't think I'm kidding, but Coach Daniels never kidding. You don't show, you sit the bench. Sit the bench, the team loses. Lose regionals." He glared. "I'm dead. You're dead. We're dead."

She gazed at him. "You really care about this, huh?"

Connor's expression—her expression, ugh—shuttered. "Yeah. I do.".

That was sufficient to put her in her place. She had finally understood that hockey was not anything to him. It was him. The stress, the weight, the leadership of the team—all those now equaled the quantity of how he was so shut-down emotionally crank.

"Fine," she said cautiously. "But when we trade back, you're walking across campus in heels. And they'd better be stilettos.".

"Deal," Connor said. "Now quit flopping around like a trout and get your feet in gear."

In Riley's actual body, meanwhile…

Connor was wedged in her lit class trying to understand why this classroom reeked of highlighters and vanilla. He was wedged between two chatty girls who wouldn't stop talking to him about "what happened at practice yesterday."

He rolled his eyes.

Professor Maddox walked to the front of the room, thumbing a book of poetry. "Discuss themes of suppressed emotion. Miss Quinn?"

Connor blinked. "Uh. yeah?"

The professor's face brightened on him—on her. "Tell us, what do you think the poet was trying to say with 'silent longing in the shadow of spring'?"

Connor furrowed his brow. "Uh. maybe it's. constipation?"

There was silence. Then there was laughter rippling through the room.

Professor Maddox's eyebrow flickered. "Creative interpretation."

Connor leaned back in his chair. "I hate poetry," he growled.

Back on the ice…

Riley was improving. Kind of. She'd fallen twice in the last drill, and one of them had been when Logan had accidentally run into her.

Coach Daniels, a giant of a man with a voice that shook the rafters, skated over to her.

"Blake," he boomed. "What's wrong with you today?"

"I'm just. experimenting with a new move," Riley snarled. "You know. keeping the opponents in the dark by making them think I'm terrible."

The coach scowled at her for what seemed like an eternity, unmoved. "Cute. But keep your mind on the game, or you're riding the pine."

She stood up stiffly, staggering to the bench and collapsing onto it in a sore, sweaty mess.

As the team was leaving practice off the ice, Logan had whacked her in the back.

"Don't worry about it, bro," he said. "No one's going to be perfect every time. Not even Connor Blake himself."

She smiled tiredly. "Thanks, man."

Riley slammed into hers later that night—no, Connor Blake's—dorm room. She sprawled on the bed face-first.

Connor came in a couple of minutes later, heels in front of him.

He scowled at her. "So. You almost killed my reputation."

She glared at him sideways. "You called poetry constipation to a tenured professor."

They glared at each other.

And then they both erupted into spontaneous hysterical laughter.

"I don't think this is my life," Riley guffawed in shock.

"Me neither," Connor admitted. "But hey… at least we're not dead yet."

Riley sat up and rolled over onto her back. "Barely."

Connor braced himself in the doorway. "We're going to have to assist one another. Seriously. No sabotaging. No tantrums."

Riley nodded. "Deal."

They simply stood there looking at each other for a moment.

Something moved—a little bit.

Not friendship. Not really.

Not really, anyway.

Not open and unmasked hatred.

Maybe, maybe possibly……

They were starting to get it.