Bea Mullins Takes a Shot

Chapter One

There’s no way I’m joining a team sport.

It’s the first thing I think when I walk into the cafeteria with my best friend, Celia Chan, for the Glenwood Middle sports fair. The metal chairs are all stacked up in the corner, and our entire seventh-grade class is milling about among the make-shift booths.

None of them look happy to be here.

“I can’t believe you’re finally joining a team with me again, Bea!” Celia loops her arm through mine and grins.

Okay, scratch that: exactly one person looks happy to be here.

“I don’t think joining’s the right word,” I point out, “considering Coach Armstrong’s not giving us much choice in the matter.”

When the gym flooded last week, it should’ve been the greatest day in the history of middle school. And when Coach announced that it would take at least until the winter break to fix the damage, it should’ve been the greatest day in all of history, period. But Coach had to go and “suggest” to our parents that we be “encouraged” to join an extracurricular sport to make up for it.

And my parents had to go and take that seriously.

“Your father and I think this would be an excellent opportunity for you to get out of your shell,” Mom had told me after school that day.

She didn’t have to get further than your father and I for me to know I was doomed. Ever since my parents had “consciously uncoupled” (Mom’s words) and Dad had moved into a “sweet new bachelor pad downtown” (Dad’s words), getting them to agree on anything was pretty much impossible. Which meant that if they wanted me to join a sport, I was joining a sport.

So, yeah--thanks for nothing, Coach Armstrong.

Celia grabs my wrist and drags me down the first row of tables. Our sneakers squeak loud against the cafeteria floors. A few of the booths are staffed by reluctant-looking team members, but most are empty. I guess even the sports nuts aren’t excited about Coach’s “suggestion.”

“Do you think Coach would let us start a Loophole team instead?” I ask Celia. It’s this online, puzzle-based video game we’re obsessed with. “They really do have competitive leagues for that, you know.”

She jabs me on the shoulder. “Come on, Bea, I’m serious! This is going to be so much fun.”

I raise an eyebrow. That’s easy for Celia to say. She’s one of those activities kids--you know the type. The ones whose parents are always shuttling them back and forth between karate lessons and modern dance classes and, one summer, even a circus trapeze camp. Plus, she wasn’t the one who totally embarrassed herself at the last extracurricular we joined together. That was all me--just one of many reasons why I don’t do team sports.

The rest of our grade is already shuffling awkwardly among the tables, so I sigh and follow Celia off to the first one. A tall, lanky kid I don’t recognize is perched behind it.

“Bowling,” he tells us, gesturing to the empty sign-up sheet. Then he shrugs. “I bring my own shoes. You know they never clean those rental pairs, right?”

I cringe and choke out a “We’ll think about it” before Celia can get any ideas. I’m trying to start seventh grade out on the right foot--and mystery-bowling-shoe fungus-foot definitely isn’t it.

By the time I get rid of that mental image, Celia’s already skipped off to the next table: fencing. I hover behind while she talks to the team’s captain.

“We’ve only had one epee-related accident so far,” he’s saying. “And her vision was only blurry for two days. Three days tops.”

I scrunch up my nose. Considering we’ve been back to school for less than a month, one accident isn’t exactly a great track record. Thanks but no thanks, fencing team.

Once we’re out of earshot, I spin Celia around to face me. “We can just tell my parents I joined something, right? There’s no way Coach would rat me out.”

But when I glance over to where Coach Armstrong’s standing in the corner, her hands planted firmly on her hips while she nods to herself, I’m not so sure. First burpees during warm-ups, then a whole unit of dodgeball, and now this. I can’t help but wonder if torturing twelve-year-olds is some kind of twisted entertainment for her.

“We’re going to find something great,” Celia reassures me. “I bet we’d make a fantastic synchronized swimming pair. Or, ooh, what if we did something really obscure, like curling? We could become the youngest curling champions in the country!”

“Only because no one under the age of sixty actually curls,” I point out.

We’ve already completed a half loop of the auditorium, and from where I’m standing, it’s starting to feel like slim pickings. I mean, there are only so many sports that don’t require a functioning gym--and none of them seem to be the low-effort, zero-chances-of-embarrassment option I was hoping for.

I’m about to head back to the beginning--bowling-shoe foot fungus probably isn’t lethal, is it?--when a bright homemade banner catches my eye from the corner. The words ICE HOCKEY are scrawled across it in messy handwriting, and there’s a table filled with equipment underneath.

And behind the table, in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, there’s a girl.

Her thick black hair is tied back in two braids, and she’s wearing a faded blue hockey jersey and matching Converse. It’s the sort of outfit that would look ridiculous on me, but somehow, she’s made it cool. I cringe down at the wrinkled T-shirt I threw on without thinking about it this morning.

Our eyes meet across the cafeteria, and it’s only then I realize I’ve kind of been staring. My face flushes, but she just beams and waves me over. I’ve already taken a few hesitant steps her way before my brain connects with my feet again and re-minds me that Hello, this is ice hockey we’re talking about. It’s pretty much got the maximum potential for embarrassment--everything’s a million times harder on ice.

But before I can turn and make my escape, Celia stands on her tiptoes to look over my shoulder.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh!”

“No,” I say back, but it’s too late. Celia grabs my hand and starts dragging me to the corner, leaving me with no choice but to follow.

“Come on, Bea,” she says. “I saw the way you were looking at the hockey table.”

Yeah, sure--the hockey table, and not the effortlessly cool girl behind it.

“Even you have to admit it’s perfect,” she continues. “You love watching hockey. I did three years of figure skating. It’s a dream come true!”

“More like my worst nightmare,” I mutter behind her.

And, I mean, fine: Do I like watching Hockey Night in Canada with my dad? Yes. Is it mainly because he makes a big bowl of buttery popcorn and shouts things I’m not allowed to say at the TV? Also yes. But there’s a big difference--as in, a massive, Grand Canyon–sized chasm of difference--between watching and actually, you know, playing.

But before I can say any of that to Celia, she’s already at the table. She stops in front of a tall girl with freckles--not the one who waved at me--and launches into conversation. I take a half step toward the girl in the jersey, but she’s talking to someone else. My ears get hot. Why did I come over here? She probably wasn’t even waving at me in the first place.

“--three years of figure skating, which should probably translate,” Celia’s saying when I zone in again. “How different can hockey skates really be?”

The freckled girl catches my eye over Celia’s head. Her pale nose is singed pink with a sunburn left over from the summer. I start to backtrack the heck out of there, but Celia turns and yanks me forward--which is pretty impressive, considering she’s half my height.

“Bea, this is our new team captain, Nicole. She’s been playing hockey since, oh, I don’t know, forever. Isn’t that awesome?”

Nicole smiles and throws me a thumbs-up. I force my mouth into something resembling a grin, then bend down to hiss at Celia. “Uh, no way, C.”

“Yes way, Bea.” She sticks out her lower lip. “Nicole was just telling me that they’re going to be disqualified from their league if they don’t get more players. They need us.”

“Bowling also needs us,” I shoot back, but it’s as if Celia doesn’t hear me. This is typical--she loves a good underdog story. I mean, A League of Their Own is literally her favorite movie. Girls’ hockey might as well have her name written all over it.

“What your friend means,” Nicole pipes up then, squeezing around in front of the table, “is that we’ve still got fourteen spots left on our roster. Plenty of ice time for everyone.”

I don’t bother pointing out that fourteen players is basically the entire team.

“I haven’t skated in years,” I tell Celia, my voice coming out in a whine.

She just shrugs. “That’s okay. You can get Tyler to help you.”

Tyler’s my hockey-obsessed older brother, and if there’s one thing I want to do even less than joining hockey, it’s telling Tyler I joined hockey. I can practically hear him snickering already.

But from the glint in Celia’s eyes, I can tell she isn’t going to budge. She just flicks her long black hair behind her shoulder before signing Celia Chan across the top of the sign-up page. Then she turns to Nicole, leaving me to stare down at the nearly empty list of names on the table.

When I look up again, I’m face to face with the girl I’d been staring at.

“Nicole didn’t convince you?” the girl asks, smirking in her teammate’s direction. She folds her arms across her faded jersey. “Maybe I’ll do a better job. Do you know how to skate?”

My mouth is dry when I answer. “Um . . . sort of? But I haven’t skated in years.”

Not since the colossal wipeout last time Dad tried to teach me, I think. I’m not even sure if my skates still fit.

But the girl just chuckles. “Well, that’s okay. Everyone has to start somewhere!”

I let out a nervous giggle, not sure what to say to that. I’m pretty sure the only place I’d be starting is flat on my face.

“Seriously,” the girl says, leaning across the table. “Hockey’s gonna be awesome. We’ll probably get to miss class for practices, the rink’s got amazing hot chocolate, plus, no one’s lost a toenail yet!” She gives a meaningful nod to the cross-country table.

“No one’s--what?” I blink at her.

“Trust me,” she says, her brown eyes sparkling. “It’s going to be so much fun. You’ll see.”

She smiles, holding a pen out in front of me, and I wince. If I don’t want to join hockey (which, hello, I don’t), I have to tell her to her face.

Awkward.

But then she smacks her forehead with her palm and spins the sign-up sheet around on the table. “We’re not as sad as Nicole made us sound, but it would probably look better if the team’s founders actually signed up for their own team, right?”

She scribbles her name beneath Celia’s: Gabriela Vega Martinez. Then she flips the pen toward me and grins.

“I should go convince some more kids, but . . . hopefully I’ll see you on the ice.”

She leaves before I can think of something cool to say back, so I just mumble, “Uh, yeah,” before staring down at the table.

Maybe this isn’t the worst idea in the world. I mean, playing would definitely be a disaster, but there’s no way they’re going to be able to recruit enough students for this team . . . right?

I bend down in front of the folding table and write my name before I can think better of it.

Beatrice Mullins

I guess that makes us a team of four.

Chapter Two

When I turn the corner onto my street after school, I’m met with the sound of hockey sticks slapping the pavement and the stench of dirty equipment wafting down the block.

Yeah. Even from ten houses away, it’s that bad.

Dad’s grin when he spots me coming down the street is so wide, you’d think I’d been drafted into the NHL. It’s almost enough to make me feel good about joining hockey--I mean, at least now I’ll have something in common with him and Tyler. But then the breeze gives me another whiff of Tyler’s old equipment, and my stomach lurches.

I’m not sure if it’s from the smell or my nerves.

“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask once I’m in earshot. Seeing him at Mom’s house always feels kind of weird, even though it’s only been a couple of years since it was his house too.

“My only daughter signs up for my favorite sport and I’m not allowed to be excited about it?” He leans against his hockey stick and beams at me. “Of course I’m going to help get you suited up!”

Considering I only texted Dad about the team fifteen minutes ago, excited is probably an understatement. He must’ve run all the red lights to get here.

“Y’know, I’m flattered you’re following in my footsteps,” Tyler pipes up next to him, “but don’t you think this is a bit much, Bea?”

I try to give him a shove, but Tyler’s had five growth spurts in the past year alone, so he doesn’t budge. He just snorts and shoots a puck between my legs.

“I, for one, think this is great,” Dad says. “Even if I was a bit”--he bites his lip, as if he’s choosing his next word carefully--“surprised.”

Okay, that one’s a total understatement. I’m pretty sure he gave up all hope of my athletics career after I made the worst play in the history of basketball two summers ago.

The memory surfaces before I can stop it, and all of a sudden it’s like a basketball’s rebounded straight into my stomach. It’s the same gut punch I get every time someone brings up the basketball camp I went to with Celia.

“You and Mom are the ones who thought joining a team would be a great ‘confidence-building’ experience,” I mumble, trying to push the feeling away. But Dad’s too busy passing the puck to Tyler to listen.

My head bobs back and forth as I watch the puck sail between them. Dad and Tyler are both tall and white, like me, but that’s where our similarities end. They’ve got the same shaggy brown hair, the same long nose--and, oh yeah, the same ability to not suck at all sports. It’s as if they’re the same person sometimes--I’m pretty sure they even share most of their hockey equipment. Meanwhile I’m the imposter crewmate of our family, just waiting to be voted out.