3. Beer League

CHAPTER 3

BEER LEAGUE

FRANCINE

With the Union on the road I have no excuse not to go to Mom and Dad's for dinner, so I drive to Ann Arbor and sit in the driveway of my parents' house for longer than I'd care to admit before walking up the driveway and ringing the doorbell.

"Francine," Mom opens the door and wraps me in a hug. "How many times have I told you to stop ringing the doorbell and just come inside?"

"Juliette," Dad's voice comes from the nearby den with a laugh, "let the girl inside."

"Hi Dad," I step into the den and see the Union on television; a replay of the last home game. "Do you like their chances tonight?"

"Against Anaheim?" Dad asks with a note of derision. "Always. We may not have The Assembly Line anymore, but when you get Morrow, Hyryck, and Larsson out there together? They play like The Line used to."

At the mention of Stefan Morrow my cheeks grow hot, and I don't know why, because we've only talked a handful of times. But when we talk he smiles, and that smile — even with his two missing teeth — is gorgeous. It reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling at the corners every time. I can only hope I don't have a blush to accompany the heat, because there's no way I'd be able to explain myself if asked.

"Dinner is ready," Mom steps into the den, "you two can catch the game after we eat."

Following Mom down the hall into the dining room, Dad and I take our seats. "It's not Anaheim we have to worry about," Mom says casually, passing me a bowl of mashed potatoes. "It's Colorado tomorrow night. They're always a tough team to play. Old grudges die hard, I know I don't have to tell you two that."

Dad's eyes fill with pride when he looks at Mom who preens under his attention. As much as Mom tries to hide it, her love for hockey runs deep. When I was injured on the ice as a kid, it threatened to sever that relationship she had with the game, but she's slowly coming back around.

"You can stay and watch with us tonight," Mom offers. "I can make snacks."

"I have a hockey game."

Since moving to Detroit, I've been involved in a women's beer league, as a founding member and unofficially league statistician. It takes me back to my days playing rec hockey as a kid in the U.P. When I was thirteen, I took a particularly bad fall and broke my pelvis and dislocated my hip. I had surgery to reconstruct my pelvis, but the hip dislocation led to soft tissue damage, and pain that I still live with daily.

When I found the beer league here in Detroit twenty years later, they were cool with my slower skating; I play short shifts, with a line that accommodates me and understands that I'm not streaking toward a puck anytime soon but I can position myself where I need to be in order to be useful to the team.

"You're being careful?" Mom asks, brows pinched, concern in her voice.

Mom sat with me in the ER the night of my fall. She was the one who took care of me when I had to stay home from school because of the injury and surgery. There's a reason she's never wanted me working in hockey, or playing hockey again.

"I'm always careful. And my team knows about the injury and my lack of speed on the ice."

"We could come and watch," Dad suggests with a bright smile. "It's been way too long since I've seen my Franny Girl on the ice."

"We don't typically have a lot of fans, but if you wanted to come, I wouldn't try to talk you out of it."

Dad comes to the game with me, sitting in the stands with his bottle of water and bag of popcorn that he brought from home. It doesn't surprise me that Mom stayed home, she hasn't seen me play since the day I got injured twenty-some years ago. Dad was the one who encouraged me to get back onto the ice when I was ready, and not to stay off indefinitely. He laced up skates of his own and put me through my paces at the local skating rink.

He cheers me on when I win my first face off and score my first goal. His voice rings out when I get sent to the penalty bench for throwing an elbow at my opponent. Most beer leagues don't allow checking or slashing or fighting, and while we don't allow fighting (automatic hundred dollar fine), we do allow checking. So many of us grew up playing low contact hockey and we want to play the physical game. We sat down as a league when we organized and laid out the rules, including allowing for checking, but there is a line…and my elbow just crossed it.

I can't help but laugh when I step off the ice and see that someone has added a strip of masking tape on one end of the bench and scrawled out FRANCINE in permanent marker. It's not that I see the penalty bench all that often…but often enough that someone took it upon themselves to save me a seat. I've gotten really good about keeping track of penalty minutes on my own, that doing it for the Union hasn't been a hardship. I've loved working in the penalty box for the few home games we've had so far, and like my brother reminded me I have my foot in the door with the Union.

When my penalty time is up, my skates hit the ice and that short bit of rest gives me the odd burst of speed that I'll pay for later, but for now it feels good to fly across the ice with my team. At the end of our sixty minutes on the ice, the whistle blows and we skate to our respective benches, regardless of the score; sometimes we end in a tie, sometimes we don't. Tonight, we end in a tie, two lines of players shaking hands before packing up our equipment and going our separate ways until next time. Usually. Tonight, our team's captain skates to center ice and gets everyone's attention.

"I have a couple of announcements tonight before you all leave," Rachel's voice echoes as we all quiet down. "Next week's game is going to be played an hour later so that everyone can join us…because our favorite penalty bench warmer just started a new job with the Detroit Union. Congratulations, Francine!"

A cheer goes up from both teams and hands reach out to clap me on the shoulder and back as heat rises in my cheeks. It's one thing to be celebrated after scoring a goal and getting right back to business, it's another when all eyes are on me like this.

"And with that news, I think we're going to plan an informal league outing to a Union game. We'll have information on that in the next newsletter so keep an eye out. Anything else before we head out tonight? No? Good. See everyone next week!"

Dad waits for me at the arena door, taking my bag from me as we head out into the night.

"Got anywhere you need to be?" Dad asks as he loads my bag into the trunk of my car.

"I was just going to go home," I glance at my watch, showing nearly ten at night. "I have physical therapy in the morning, but that's it."

"I've got an idea." There's a gleam in Dad's eye as I toss him my keys.

We drive for a little while to Donut Worry, a twenty-four-hour bakery and coffee shop whose main clientele are autoworkers headed to or from work. Dad pulls in and parks, tossing me a smile as he does.

"Just like old times."

Growing up, Dad always took me to hockey practice. He was in the stands with the other parents, cheering me on and encouraging me when I was overwhelmed or feeling down. And after every hockey practice we'd stop on the way home and get a donut. The donut shop near the rink in the U.P. was part of the closest gas station. The donuts were never fresh at night, but I never minded because that was my time with Dad. That was our thing. We haven't done this in a while, and I'm glad we get to do it tonight. It's a bonus that there's a small television mounted in the corner and we get to watch the Union's opening face off together as we eat our donuts.

"You looked good out there on the ice tonight, Franny," Dad says as I watch Stefan skate to center ice for the face off. "How's the hip feeling?"

"I skated too hard tonight, I know that…but it sure was fun."

"I've got to get your mom to come out and watch you. She would have loved every minute of this game. Except for the four you spent on the penalty bench," he adds with a laugh. "Speaking of…"

Dad looks up at the television and I follow his gaze, finding Stefan on his way to the box with Antoine Bowman, leaving the Union shorthanded for a few minutes. We watch as the team scrambles now that they're playing three-on-five, and they hold Anaheim off, even after a few close calls in the crease. When Stefan streaks out of the box, he finds the puck as if it's magnetized to his stick, and fires it into the net.

"He reminds me of the old days," Dad says with a smile. "Like watching the Assembly Line."

"He's fun to watch."

"This is a fun team. I've got a good feeling about them." Dad is, like most Detroit sports fans, hopeful to the very last. Even when that hope seems impossible or improbable, Dad cheers on his teams and always hopes for the best.

When I wake in the morning, it takes more than a few minutes for me to get moving. Stretching my limbs in bed, my muscles tighten and take their time to relax again. After a quick breakfast and copious amounts of coffee, I drive across town for a morning physical therapy session.

Britt, my physical therapist, greets me with a smile and a sweep of her hand toward the bank of bikes in front of a wall of windows. As I slowly ride, I watch the sun paint streaks of orange and pink across the sky. The ten minute bike ride is the most relaxing part of every physical therapy session; ten minutes of relative silence as I ride and listen to whatever radio station is on in the gym. Today it's classic rock.

And today, my quiet ride is interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Is that Francine, I see?" A voice calls from across the gym, as the sound of walker wheels makes its way closer to me.

"Good morning, Gladys," I greet the older woman with a smile. "How's the hip?"

"Eh, it's been better. Yours?"

"I skated too hard last night."

"How many penalty minutes did you get?" Gladys laughs, eyes glimmering with mischief.

"Only four." I'm more proud of that than I should be, honestly.

"That's all? You must not have skated too hard then."

"Give the girl a break, Gladys," Elaine, Gladys' partner in PT hijinx, clicks through the gym with her cane and sits down beside me on the open bike. "Four PIMs is quite respectable."

"Thank you, Elaine."

Gladys and Elaine have been mainstays at the physical therapy center since I started coming here; Gladys is rehabbing from hip replacement and Elaine from knee surgery. Both are Detroit sports fans, and neither holds back on their criticism of the teams, or their love of the players.

"What's new since we saw you last, Francine?" Elaine starts pedaling just as my time is winding down.

"I got a job."

"Congratulations," they chorus and hold out hands on either side of me for a fist bump and high five. "Where at?"

"Renaissance Arena. I'm the new home penalty box attendant."

"Ooh! A front row seat to The Assembly Line reincarnated." Before I can ask Gladys to expound on her statement, Britt interrupts and gets me started on my exercises, putting me through the wringer today, but it's worth it when I finally lay down at the end of my session and am allowed to ice my hip. Gladys and Elaine join me when their own sessions are over, pulling their chairs close to the table where I'm laying so that we can catch up a bit more.

"What's it like being in the sin bin with the boys?" Elaine asks, getting a chuckle out of me with her use of the nickname for the penalty box.

"All I do is keep the time and open the door, Elaine."

"Sure, sure. But that center…what's his name Gladys?"

"Morrow," Gladys answers with a fond smile. "Stefan Morrow."

"Yeah! He's the one. What's he like?" Elaine scoots her chair the tiniest bit closer to me.

"He's very nice," I answer quietly. I've only interacted with him off the ice a few times and each time I've been surprised by the man I've met. On the ice he has a presence, a reputation as evidenced by Gladys and Elaine's questions, but off the ice that imposing presence is softened. "Not at all what I expected."

Elaine and Gladys share a look with each other. A look with a lot of meaning behind it and I'm grateful when the timer goes off and my ice is removed. Sitting up slowly, I stand and carefully stretch, feeling the ache in my hamstrings as I do.

"Ladies, it was a pleasure, as always."

"We'll see you next time, Francine."

After spending the afternoon at home, I make my way to work, ready for whatever the night might bring. The first thing the night brings is a questionable tripping call.

"Francine," Steffan Morrow skates off the ice and into the penalty box, followed by a few more of his teammates. "Lovely to see you again."

Both boxes are a little cramped at the moment, as the referees make sense of the fight – and several additional, smaller fights – that just took place on the ice. Coaches are appealing penalties, and all the while I'm trying to keep track of majors and minors to make sure that I have my timing correct. I can't be distracted by gleaming brown eyes, helmet-and-sweat-ruffled dark hair, and an endearingly toothless smile. Just below his left eye is a cut that looks fresh.

"You should see a trainer after your shift on the ice." I shouldn't talk to him, but I do. He makes me want to break all the rules between us. "You've been cut."

Steffan removes a glove and presses a finger to the spot below his eye, shock registering on his face when he looks down and sees blood on his fingers.

"Thanks Francine." He looks to the ice before turning his gaze back to me. "Can I see you after the game?"

The chaos on the ice is settled and it's just Steffan and I left in the box, my timer ticking down the last minute of his penalty. Leaning forward, I open the small door and as Steffan skates onto the ice, I respond. "You know where I park."

After the game, I find myself in an all-night diner, seated in a booth across from Stefan. His suit jacket lays in the seat next to him, the buttons of his collar undone just enough to reveal a dark smattering of chest hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows and showing off the tattoos that cover his left arm.

"Did you grow up in Michigan?" Stefan asks, reaching for a fry from the plate in the middle of the table.

I don't know why, but I feel relaxed around him. Like I can be myself. Not Francine the penalty box attendant, just…Francine.

"Born and raised. What about you?"

"I grew up across the river in Windsor," he answers, "always wanted to play for the Union. How'd you end up in the penalty box?"

"Slashing." I answer with a smile, dipping my fries into my chocolate shake.

"That's my move," his foot nudges mine under the table, or maybe I just imagined it. "But seriously, how does someone end up with that job?"

"I've always wanted to work in hockey. For as long as I can remember. I played a bit when I was a kid, but because of injury that didn't pan out. So after college I sent applications all over the country and somehow got lucky enough to end up working for my hometown team."

"Do you like it?" He asks, eyebrows pinched together. "Babysitting a bunch of hockey players?"

"I don't necessarily mind it, but it's not what I hoped I'd be doing."

"What would you rather be doing?"

"Statistical analysis."

Stefan sputters and coughs, nearly choking on his milkshake. "You're kidding!"

"I'm not. I have an applied statistics degree from Michigan Tech."

"And they have you in the box?!"

"I have my foot in the door. It's a start. And there's always the chance for something more."

It's a start. Someday I'll find myself in my dream job, but for now I'll continue to track penalties and, as Stefan put it, babysit hockey players.

"What about you?" I ask, "What would you be doing if you weren't a hockey player?"

"I always wanted to be an electrician, like my dad," Stefan leans back in the booth, a far away look on his face, "but I ended up in Halifax playing major junior hockey until the Union drafted me."

What Stefan leaves unsaid is that he wasn't just drafted by the Union, but drafted in the first round, and tenth overall. Dad was over the moon about that draft pick, and that draft class as a whole. Stefan and his usual line mate, and sometimes his plus one in the penalty box, Alex Hyryck have made names for themselves in Detroit. Stefan has been with the union since he was drafted, and Alex Hyryck signed as a free agent two years ago after spending the first part of his career in Pittsburgh.

They have the kind of on-ice chemistry that youth hockey coaches point to and tell their kids "be like them." Stefan always knows where Alex is on the ice and vice versa, and along with the third member of their line, Pat Larsson, they bring back memories of The Assembly Line. When the three of them take to the ice for their shifts, they work together in a way that looks effortless. Their passing and puck handling is a thing of beauty.

"It's getting late," Stefan looks at his watch as the waitress drops off our bill and clears Stefan's empty plate. I box my food up in the styrofoam container I'm offered, and reach for the bill at the same time as Stefan, our fingers brushing for a moment. Stefan wraps his hand around mine and wiggles the bill out of my grasp with a sly smile.

"It's on me," he reaches for his wallet in the pocket of his suit coat, "maybe I'll let you get the next one."

"Oh…I don't know if we should…you know, since I'm an official and you're…you."

"Yeah. Of course." There's a note of disappointment in his voice that I choose not to dissect as we walk out of the restaurant together. And he walks me to my car, waiting as I get inside, even closing the door for me. He's such a contradiction. On the ice he leads the team in penalty minutes, but off the ice he's kind and soft spoken. He's gentle. It's a wonder that he spends as much time as he does in the box.