k a r r i s

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[a/n: any chunks of prose that are in italics in this chapter alone, are meant to represent flashbacks]

Mom was working late and couldn't pick me up right after school. Berkley had dance team rehearsal and instead of taking the bus back home, I decided to stick around to wait for her. Watching my best friend and the rest of the perfectly chiseled girls on the dance team twirl, leap, and bend their bodies to the beat of top-40 music was fun for the first five minutes. It was slightly uncomfortable because my own insecurities were heightened tenfold as my eyes scanned across the thin girls. I was in no way considered fat-- lacking muscular strength and tone yes, but witnessing the dance team's remarkable athleticism made me feel quite insecure about my own body. 

So I left. 

I sauntered out of the gym and across the path to a familiar building: the hockey arena. The second my foot stepped into the white linoleum floors, and my ears were graced with the sounds of banging hockey sticks to ice, I was instantly brought back the last time I was in this very same arena. 

"...Karris, sweetie, do you have everything?" mom asked, as we shuffled into the arena doors, the building packed with students, faculty, family and supporters of the opposing team. 

"Student ID, check," I raised my bright yellow Brampcrest school badge, "and Gabe's posters, check," I waved the neon green and pink posters I had made to cheer on my brother.

"Let's hurry, your dad is already waiting inside," mom informed, hastily making her way through the crowd and towards the bleachers...

The hockey team rounded the rink, zooming through the ice as they dribbled hockey pucks. In perfect view, number 15 stood in the center of the restrained chaos observing and scrutinizing every padded player. He held his hockey stick close to him as if it were some kind of magical staph. In his other hand, Ashton clutched onto his helmet by his thigh, his brown sweaty curls tousled messily atop his head. 

"Speed up fuckfaces! You're lagging! Tryouts are in two days and if some new fucker comes in with speed like Flash you're off the team!" Ashton dictated, a vain protruding from his neck as he angrily scowled at his fellow teammates. Instantly, the team clung onto Ashton's words, and as predicted they skated much faster. 

I went down the steps, inching closer and closer to the area behind the players bench. When my bum met the cool seat, I was once again taken back to an all too-familiar game. 

...All of Willowridge was on edge. It was overtime and we were losing at 1-2. Brampcrest was playing harder than ever, wearing out the Willowridge boys with no problem. The Championship game was a cringe worthy sight, as two of our best players were benched due to injury. I knew my school, Brampcrest was absolutely bloodthirsty for the shiny trophy, and Willowridge struggled to keep the prize in their clutch. 

A whistle was blown and a break was announced. Both teams skated to their respective areas-- Willowridge with heavy breaths, and heads hung low. I looked over to my brother Gabe, who looked so defeated, it seemed like he had lost all hope. I held up my pink poster as my brother's head lifted. 

"Potential Energy. Velocity. Kinetic Energy. 100%," my sign read.

Gabe stared at my poster for a moment before letting a grin form on his face. No one would understand the so-called gibberish that I had scribbled on my sign; no one but my twin. He looked at his tired, bleak teammates with more hope in his eyes than before. Gabe instigated a team huddle, a slew of words coming out of his mouth. Before I knew it, their hands met at the center of the circle, uniting them as a band of brothers...

The team all lined up at the face off circle, Ashton at the front of the line. Another man, who I recognized as Coach Benson, stood off to the side holding what looked like a black hair dryer. The coach pointed the device in the open space between the players and the net. In perfect slapshot position, Ashton arched his hockey stick back, swung, and once hit, the rubber puck rapidly flew through the air, striking the center of the goalie's net.

"Eighty-seven miles per hour!" the Coach yelled, reading the screen off of the radar gun. Ashton earned a high five from his team mates as he skated out of the line and off to the side. He took off his helmet, grabbing his water bottle and proceeded to drink from it. I was impressed. 87mph was a decent speed for a slapshot. If done correctly, it was the average speed most players were able to make their puck fly. 

The other players however, didn't do as well as Ashton. As I sat and observed each team member, I noticed that their formation was off and their stick handling was sloppy. Slapshots came down to a science. It was all physics. It was a concept I had to engrain in Gabe's head; a concept that gave Willowridge its ninth consecutive Championship win.

...We were finally tied at 2-2 and my heart was racing with anticipation. It was like a beautiful dance routine the way Gabe and number 15 raced through the ice, dodging every Brampcrest player as they inched closer towards the goalie. The puck was passed back and forth between my brother and number 15, creating an unstoppable duo. 

And then it happened. 

It was the perfect setup. Willowridge defensemen kept Brampcrest at bay, giving Gabe a small window to score. He arched his hockey stick back-- potential energy. He swung, letting the stick hit the ice before even coming in contact with the puck-- velocity. And within a blink of an eye, the puck was hurdled through the air-- kinetic energy. The puck flew past the goalie and into the net at 100mph.

Score...

"Pathetic! What the hell is wrong with you lot? You all disgust me! We're not even going to make it to championships with your sorry slapshot skills!" Ashton screamed at the top of his lungs like a military platoon leader. The rest of the team stood stationary, cringing at each of their captain's words. There was nothing they could do except take the mental and verbal abuse. 

Personally, yelling will get the team nowhere. Number 15 however, seemed to think that fear will motivate his boys to work harder. I looked over to the coach, who was writing things down on a clipboard by the player's bench-- completely oblivious to the fact that the team captain was without a doubt an asshole. 

"Hey Coach Benson?" I approached the aging man who wore a windbreaker jacket and a Willowridge hat. 

Coach Benson looked up from his clipboard, "um, I think you're in the wrong place. The girl's dance team is practicing in the gym across from this building." 

I opened my mouth quite dumbfounded, "sorry sir, I'm not on the dance team."

"Cheerleading?"

"Nope,"

"Gymnastics?"

"Wrong again," I stated, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but notice that your team has a little trouble with their slapshots. It's actually all physics. There's a mathematical equation that can help every one on the team hit the puck at one-hund--" 

"Not to be rude little lady, but do you play hockey?" Coach interrupted.

"No sir, not really," I shook my head.

"Then how would you have any knowledge of how the game is played, much less how to improve my team's slapshot abilities?" Coach Benson cooly reprimanded. 

"I-I-I d-didn't mean to overstep a-any b-boundaries," I stammered, stepping back. This was a mistake trying to help out the team. I should've just kept my mouth shut instead and left them alone.

Just as I was about to turn around and scurry my stupid self up the steps and out of the hockey arena, Mr. Asshole himself, number 15 decided to join in on the torment. 

"What seems to be the problem here coach?" Ashton questioned, lifting his helmet off of his head. He raised a brow in my direction, staring at me with a smug expression.

"This little lady here thinks she knows how to improve the team's slapshot skills," Coach Benson informed, a smirk gracing his face. 

Ashton bursted into hysterical laugher, "really? This nerd actually thinks that she knows more about hockey than the hockey team?"

"I'm sorry. It was my mistake," I turned my face away, utterly embarrassed. 

"You should be sorry nerd. For fucking opening your mouth. Besides, you're a girl-- I mean, you kinda look like one. Not exactly sure where your boobs are," Ashton insulted, cocking his head to the side as if my displeasure in showing cleavage was actually something to be confused over. 

"Not to be sexist," Coach Benson started, and I already knew what he was about to say, "but hockey is a man's sport." 

"I beg to differ coach," I breathed, lifting my eyes to meet his.

"You beg to, what? Are you going to argue that girls can actually play hockey and keep up with the guys? I highly doubt it. And if there is a girl that can, it certainly won't be you. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You're so... small," Ashton scrunched up his face in major disapproval, his expression clearly telling me of his judgment. 

To say that I was offended would be an understatement-- I was mortified. Never have I ever felt so belittled and faced such deprecation than when I'm face to face with Ashton. It seemed like every time I was in his presence, which hasn't been much, did he take the time to completely bring me me down. 

It was amazing actually, to hear such sexist remarks come out of both Ashton and Coach Benson's mouth. I would've expected it from the infamous number 15, but Coach Benson was an adult who should've known better than to voice ignorant prejudice against girls. And for the record, just because I didn't prance around in tight-fitted shirts didn't make me less of a girl than my female peers who did. 

"I'm sorry again," was all I had the courage to say before I turned on my heel and ran up the stairs.

"What a nerd," Ashton scoffed. "Okay everyone! Break up into two teams. We're gonna scrimmage!" 

I stepped out of the arena and into the main lobby where concessions were. I clutched onto the strap of my messenger bag, quickening my pace to get out of the arena as fast as possible. However my endeavors were cut short.

"Hey!" 

I turned my head to find a boy sitting on a chair right outside of the entrance to section one. He had tanned skin, similar in color to mine, and a head of dark hair. A snapback adorned his head, along with a plain white v-neck and skinny jeans. 

"Hold on, I wanna talk to you," he said, standing up from the chair and jogging over to me. "I heard what you were saying back there. About how there's a foolproof way to get your puck to travel one-hundred miles per hour."

"I wouldn't say it's foolproof. It still takes practice, but yea... there's a way," I answered, looking up at him. The boy was quite tall, about 6-foot-something. Compared to my 5-foot stature, he was a skyscraper. 

"Do you think you could show me?" he asked with hopeful eyes, "I'm trying out for the team in a couple of days and I want to do whatever it takes to be part of it."

I shrugged, unsure if I should take his offer. He seemed like a nice guy and I almost wanted to protect him from the wrath of Ashton. But I knew that wouldn't be fair. 

"Please? If you help me with my slapshot, I can help you with your try out too," he bargained. 

"Hold up, what makes you think I'm trying out for the team?" 

"Because you seem to know a lot about hockey. And I'm not just saying that because you're Gabe's sister," 

My face fell, "surprised you recognized me. No one seems to know what Karris Villanueva from the newspapers look like." 

"I recognized you from one of Gabe's Instagram posts," he shrugged. "You should though. Try out for the team, I mean. Prove to Ashton and the coach that girls can play hockey." 

He had a point. Ashton and Coach Benson's comments made me feel bad and angry. I'd pay anything to see the look on their faces once they realize that not only can girls play hockey, but we can most definitely keep up with the boys. I don't even want to be on the team-- I just wanted to prove to them that I am just as good as the boys on the team. Success is the best form of revenge. 

"Alright," I smiled finally, sticking out my hand, "you've got yourself a deal." 

"Really?" his face lit up and I nodded. The boy took my hand and shook it, "thank you so much. I'm Calum Hood." 

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Hello everyone! That was chapter 3 and I hope you all liked it. Coach Benson and Ash were quite prejudice against girls weren't they? Totes ruuuude.... "why you gotta be so ruuuude!" Haha!! Well, I hope you liked this chapter! If you did, PLEASE do VOTE, COMMENT, and SHARE the story with all your friends. Every Wattpad milestone to me is amazing and makes me feel good. So let's bring more views & votes to this story, yeah?

Thank you very much for reading this story (and any of my storie of that matter). It makes me feel happy to know that people actually take the time to read the words I took time to put out. <33