Chapter 1
There’s no rejection more poignant than that of a vending machine from the late 80s spitting out your money with brutality. If the temperature inside this fieldhouse ice rink wasn’t subzero, I wouldn’t be so desperate for hot chocolate. I catch my bill as it drops and carefully straighten each corner, taking special care to smooth out all the undesirable wrinkles and make my one-dollar bill as irresistible as possible.
Holding my breath, I gingerly feed it into the temperamental machine—for the third time.
Success!
The ancient contraption makes several questionable clicks and groans before expelling a paper cup which teeters on the metal grate landing pad.
I hastily steady it as molten cocoa sprays into the receptacle with surprising force.
Who knew getting a steamy beverage at the broomball arena could qualify as an extreme sport?
The dangerous transaction ends and I retrieve my drink. The rich chocolate aroma lifts my spirits and the heat against my mittens instantly warms me.
The rowdy pregame warm-up is well underway by the time I exit the extravagantly named “snack bar,” which consists of three vending machines: sweets, savories, and hot chocolate.
Twiggy waves with uncharacteristic enthusiasm as I cautiously climb the wooden bleachers.
“Sit down. Sit down. You’re gonna miss the face-off.”
As a film-school dropout, I should warn you that no one will ever be able to utter the words Face/Off in my presence and not evoke an instant image of John Travolta and Nicolas Cage.
“So, what am I looking at here?” I gesture toward the aggressive display on the ice.
Twiggy was my grandmother’s best friend in life, and is my sole employee at the Bell, Book & Candle Bookshop, which I inherited when Grams passed. I use the term employee loosely, since she technically works for free. She allows me to compensate her with entertainment, which usually features my natural clumsiness getting the best of me, or other forms of public humiliation. The fact that I successfully climbed the grandstand without slipping and spilling my hot chocolate seems to have displeased her.
She kicks one of her biker-boot-clad feet up onto the opposite knee and rubs her mittened hands on her dungarees as she exhales loudly. “Look, kid, it’s a lot like hockey, but without skates.”
Shrugging helplessly, I’m forced to remind her of a couple things. “Spoiler alert, I used to live in Arizona. Remember? Not a lot of hockey.”
Twiggy shakes her head, and her severe grey pixie cut barely moves. “Yeah, I keep forgetting how much of life passed you by. Listen up, I’m only gonna explain this once. Ice rink. Two teams. Five guys and a goalie on each team. This is National League play, so, obviously, they’re allowed to wear broomball shoes. The sticks are a modern version of the originals, which were actual brooms with the broomcorn bound tightly with cloth or, later, duct tape. The goal is to get that ball into the opposing team’s net. Like hockey.”
I scrunch up my face. “Doesn’t hockey have a puck?”
“Geez, kid, the point was—object goes in net. Did that hot chocolate cook your brain, or are you always this dense?”
It’s not clear how to answer that question without incriminating myself. So, ignoring her question, I return to my favorite pastime: watching Sheriff Too-Hot-To-Handle run around on the ice. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll take off his helmet and I can drool over his tousled blond hair as it falls into his eyes.
That’s right, my sort-of-boyfriend is the team captain for the Pin Cherry Harbor Abominables.
A foghorn blasts, and the teams clear the ice.
The overly enthused voice of the announcer crackles from the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, and all you little Whisk Leaguers, welcome to the National Broomball Alliance National Championship!”
Something about that title feels as though it was approved by the Department of Redundancy Department. The sport doesn’t strike me as one with a big PR team. I almost ask Twiggy about the Whisk League, but when an inordinate number of kids in numbered jerseys start banging on the plexiglass with wild abandon, I go with the obvious.
The announcer continues, “Tonight’s match between the Pin Cherry Harbor Abominables and the Koochiching Arctic Arrows will decide the best team in the country!”
The crowd—and, surprisingly, there is an enormous one—roars and stomps their feet against the wooden planks.
“The winner of tonight’s match will go on to represent the United States of America in an exhibition match against the Canadian champions!”
The crowd cheers, “USA! USA!”
“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, our boys are going to show those Canucks how it’s done! The exhibition match will be played in Montréal in front of the Winter Olympics selection committee. Our fellas are going to take broomball to the Olympics!” The crowd is on their feet. The obsession with this strange sport has deep and thunderous roots.
The players on the visiting team are announced first, and then comes the home team. Apparently, there’s a song and everything.
However, I have to admit, when they announce team captain Erick Harper, I stomp my feet right along with the rest of the broom bunnies. If I’d ever learned that cool trick of sticking your fingers in your mouth and whistling loud enough to deafen most humans, I’d certainly be doing it.
The players take their positions on the ice, and the referee holds the ball in the air between the two players who are facing off.
Despite Twiggy’s insistence that she wouldn’t offer any additional explanation, she happens to mention that these two men are the centers.
The ball drops and the brooms fly!
The play is exceptionally invigorating. Our boys are running down the ice, passing the ball back and forth, when a moose-size man from the Arrows checks our forward into the boards so hard his helmet comes off.
Erick, number 10, races across the ice and checks the Moose, knocking him backward with a shocking crash.
The referee’s whistle blows, but the crowd is screaming for blood and the adrenaline on the ice is ready to deliver.
The two assistant referees join the fray and pull the men apart. Whistles screech and penalties are awarded.
Erick and Moose are sent to their respective penalty boxes.
Play continues with each team down a man.
The first half ends without further incident, and with the Abominables in the lead. Play during the second half becomes desperate, and two more fights break out.
“Why is Erick getting involved in so many fights?”
Twiggy beams with pride. “He’s the muscle.”
I have no complaints about his muscles but don’t understand what they have to do with the fighting. I say none of this to Twiggy; however, the look on my face must show my confusion.
“He takes care of his team. If the other team pushes his guys around, he pushes back, harder.” Her bloodthirsty grin is unnerving.
“Oh, he’s like the mother hen.”
She snickers and slaps her leg. “Yeah, you be sure to say that to him, kid.”
The game ends, and the Abominables take the title. Fans storm the rink to congratulate the players. The smell of victory is in the air, and there’s a huge celebration on the ice.
I scan the sea of puffy jackets and stocking caps, but when my eyes land on number 10, there’s no rejoicing.