Free Poser by Alison Hughes Page A

picked it up again before I staggered into the locker room.)
    After being the fat boy in recent modeling shoots, it came as a nice surprise that all the equipment was pretty big. Very big. Frey-big. In fact, I used a spare pair of laces as a kind of belt for the pants. There was a massive, ancient set of hockey gloves, which looked like they were permanently clenched around an invisible hockey stick. There was a set of shoulder pads that made me look like a tank. Elbow pads, shin pads, knee pads—it didn’t matter that they all ranged from extra large to monster-huge; the Freys had really helped me out.
    There was even a gray shell-like thing with ropes on it. I studied it for a long time, then shrugged and chucked it back into the bag as the other guys burst into the room.
    But not before Shay had seen me looking at it.
    â€œIn love with your gorgeous jockstrap, Spin?” he called.
    Great. Shay’s on the team.
    Oh well, you can’t have everything.
    And at least I knew what the thing was. Of course, a couple of sticks to the groin and I would’ve figured it out.
    I’m a quick learner.
    * * *
    â€œOkay, men, listen up,” Coach bellowed. Coach called us men. I loved that. Coach was really Mr. Schulz, a short, roundish guy who taught grade-nine social studies. He wore an old ballcap and an ancient high-school football jacket.
    â€œWe have our first game earlier than expected, so we really have to get practicing. We’re playing this Friday against the teachers, to wind up the school FUNdraiser.”
    He paused, looking around at our flushed, nervous faces.
    â€œThe whole school will be there; everyone’s paying a buck to watch, so let’s make it a good game.”
    My heart was pounding.
    This FUNdraiser was ballooning into something pretty big. Mrs. Walker was more effective than I gave her credit for. She was like Macy: once you start them off, there’s no stopping them.
    We started out with drills. Skating, stickhandling, shooting. It was great being out there with Chan and Frey and all the other good guys. Even Shay couldn’t ruin it for me.
    â€œGood work, Spinelli,” shouted Coach during one drill. One in which I didn’t fall down. It’s crazy how proud that made me. Good work, Spinelli! I repeated it in my head as I staggered and flailed my way down the ice. GOOD work, Spinelli! Good WORK, Spinelli! Good work, SPINELLI!
    Do you do pathetic stuff like that in your head, or is it just me?
    At the end of practice, Coach announced the lineup. I was made second-string defense, along with Chris Fedorek, who is also not much of a jock. Hey, I know it’s not exactly the glamor position, but Chris and I had a lot of fun joking about our second-string defense line being a WALL OF PAIN.
    â€œNONE SHALL PASS!” we bellowed, banging our sticks against the ice while the other guys on the team rolled their eyes.
    Have I mentioned that I love hockey?
    I peeled off the massive equipment, unlaced my skates and stuffed it all into my gym locker. My legs were quivering from all the exercise as I walked to the bus stop.
    Reeking and steaming up the windows on the bus home, I thought about breaking it to Mom and Macy that I was on the school hockey team. I thought about all the hassles it was going to cause.
    Then I remembered how fun practice had been. Hockey was worth fighting for. The simple right to play hockey. I think it might even be in the constitution somewhere.
    I cleared a circle on the steamed-over window and looked out. The bus was just passing the Frey boys’ rink, and several massive forms were gliding around out there in the dark.
    I smiled.
    Yep, it was all worth it.
    INTERRUPTION BY MACY #5
    â€œâ€˜Stylin’ Cutz hair magazine seeks boy models with gorgeous hair.’ Hey, this sounds like you, Beauty Boy!” Macy was, as usual, surfing the Internet for new and unique ways of torturing me.
    â€œBlah, blah, blah, may require