Brenna

"I can't believe he's in all my classes!" I complain to Hunter. Today was only the second day with Shea loitering around campus. It feels like it's been eons. We have every class together, and I want to jump off of a cliff. "Seriously! Every. Single. One. There are several schools he could have attended! But he had to choose Boucherie."

Hunter leans against the doorframe while I fumble through my backpack for the house key. "Don't let that bender get to you, Bren. He's jealous you're a better player than us guys put together."

I throw him a knowing glance, rummaging through the millions of lip balms that have fallen to the bottom of my backpack. God, I can't wait until my garage door opener is delivered. As soon as it is, I'll be able to park in the garage and enter through the mudroom. No more searching for my house key. "Yeah—I know. That asshole has been throwing his sexist chirps at me for years now." Finally, I find the key. I drop my backpack to the ground and unlock the door, slipping the key into my pocket. I gesture for Hunter to step through first.

He eyes me over his shoulder. "Why didn't you type in the code for the garage?"

To be honest, it slipped my mind. "Shut up," I mutter.

He chuckles and steps inside. My house is average: two floors, an open-concept kitchen that connects to the living room, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a fair-sized backyard that backs onto a spiderweb of regional park trails.

Hunter kicks his Converse off and discards his backpack next to them. I follow suit, retrieving my backpack from the front step. I stop to rearrange everything, or, as I'd call it, the mess he's left behind. No matter how many times my mom jokes around with him about clogging up the front entrance with his stuff, he can never seem to clue in. He's a sloppy teenage boy.

"Aw, shit," I hear him say. When I arrive in the kitchen, our binders in my arms, I see he's already made himself at home. He's rummaging through the fridge, pulling out anything that looks appealing to him. "Your mom made spaghetti and meatballs?"

I chuckle, watching him arrange the containers of noodles, sauce, and meatballs in a straight line. He turns his back to me for a moment, opening the corner cupboard so he can grab two bowls. "Mom even made homemade noodles," I tease.

Hunter has two bowls in his hands when he turns around. His icy blue eyes are wide as he shakes his head in disbelief. Strands of butterscotch-brown hair tangle with his lashes. "My god," he drawls. "Your mother is a saint."

I roll my eyes. "Your mom makes excellent meals, Hunter."

He shrugs and fills the bowls with noodles, forking over portions I think are way too big for my stomach to handle. I don't complain, though. It's sweet that he's thinking about me, too. He puts one bowl in the microwave and presses a few buttons before turning back to me, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the counter. "She makes excellent meals, but your mom should be on Iron Chef Canada—she's a brilliant cook."

I know a lot of things about Hunter—he's been my best friend for years—but if there's one thing that stands out the most, it's his passion for food. That's why, on top of the classes we're required to take, he's also part of Boucherie's culinary program. I also know he's planning on attending one of the top culinary schools in Canada after we graduate.

In the background, the microwave beeps. Hunter turns around and grabs the bowl, cursing at how hot it is. The bowl lands on the countertop with a ringing clang. I'm surprised it doesn't break, to be honest. "That's what oven mitts are for, genius," I drawl. He slides the bowl in my direction, pursued by a fork. "Thanks."

"Noted," he replies, picking up the second bowl.

"Uh-huh..." I trail off and shake my head. "Anyway, I'll let my mom know. I'm sure she could find time to partake in a culinary competition while being one of the head nurses at KGH."

Hunter snorts.

While we wait for the second bowl of spaghetti to heat, Hunter and I discuss the semester ahead of us. It's our last year of grade school, which is why we agreed to take our tough courses first and save our easy ones for second semester. That way, we'll be able to breeze through second semester and enjoy the perks of being a senior. We won't have to stress out over exams or essays. Hard ones, at least.

"So," Hunter says, "is Smith as big of an asshole off the ice as he is on the ice?" He pushes his food around with a fork.

I roll my eyes and take a bite of spaghetti. How do I explain Shea Smith? The term "asshole" doesn't describe him. Yesterday, when I ran into him, all I could feel was dread and disgust. Dread because I'm being forced to put up with him outside of hockey. Disgust because he's arrogant and pigheaded and I hate him. "No," I reply. "He's worse. At least when he's on the ice, he has an outlet for his shitty attitude. My classes were terrible, but French was the worst. Kaleb Jones is in there, too. I think they fuel each other's egos. I swear to God, Hunter, I don't know how I'm going to get through this."

He smiles and nudges me with his elbow. "You'll be fine. You're Brenna Harrison. If you can play hockey with a bunch of stupid boys, then you can get through this semester."

I smile, nudging him back. "Thanks, Tucks."

"Hey," he says, his mouth full of food. "We only use last names when we're playing hockey. When we're not, you're Brenna and I'm Hunter." He waves his fork at me. "Do you understand me?"

I stick my tongue out at him. "Fine."

After we've filled our stomachs with the delicious leftovers and cleaned the kitchen, we head upstairs to my bedroom. People would say my bedroom is bland, but I like the simplicity of it: light grey walls, a queen-sized bed with a barn-wood frame, and a matching nightstand. As for décor, I have a small set of shelving in the corner that's dedicated to Polaroid pictures I've taken over the years, a succulent I keep having to replace, and my favourite books. Next to the shelving is a large window that gives me a beautiful view of the backyard and the forest behind our house. Bordering a regional park has its perks.

For the next half hour, we lie on my bed and unwind. I continue reading one of Tahereh Mafi's books and Hunter sprawls out like a cat across my bed, his long legs hanging over the edge, as he scrolls through his social media accounts.

"Holy shit," I say.

"What?"

I wave him off, knowing he won't have a clue  what I'm talking about if I discuss the plot with him. Besides, the kid hates reading unless it's a hockey magazine or the stats of the Winnipeg Jets.

Grabbing a grape from the bowl on the nightstand, he tosses it at me. It hits me square in the forehead. "Hey!" I exclaim, throwing my bookmark at him. "What the hell was that for?"

He grins at me. "Come on, Bren. Tell me what's going on."

I shake my head. He's setting a trap. I'm going to tell him, and then he's going to make fun of me for being a book nerd. But his face, the sweet, innocent smile on his lips, makes me do the opposite. "One of the characters isn't really the villain. I'm ashamed to admit I hated him at the beginning."

Hunter's grin broadens as he flops down beside me. "How can you read shit like that? It sounds confusing." A strand of hair falls on his forehead.

I roll over onto my side, leaning in close enough that our noses touch, and poke him in the shoulder. "You would like it if you gave it a chance."

His face scrunches up. "I don't see that happening. Ever."

We both laugh because we know it's true. It's one of the many reasons I love Hunter, not in the romance-type way, but more like a brother. My friends at school have always tried to usher me to take the initiative and ask him out, but I could never do that. Our friendship is too valuable to me. 

Despite the laughter, I can tell something is wrong with Hunter; he's stopped scrolling through social media, his phone forgotten on the bedspread, and is staring at the display of pictures in the far corner. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he rubs his forearm—something he does when he's anxious or caught deep in thought. He's probably thinking about our game against Penticton tomorrow. It's going to be a rough one, full of vigour and pressure. I turn back to my book, my mind split between the storyline and hockey. If Hunter wants to discuss anything, he'll let me know.

"Have you thought about the conversation earlier this week?" His voice is soft, barely breaking the silence between us.

My grip tightens on the book, knuckles turning white. My mood becomes sour. I could turn this around and play stupid, but he'll just call me out. The conversation Hunter wants to have right now isn't about Shea and his team. It's about my dad. "Why the hell would I want to meet him when he left?" I snap. "Let alone find him?"

I feel terrible. I know he's looking out for me; he believes that finding my dad and talking to him, having him answer the many, many questions I have will help me sort out my inner issues. Like never being good enough at hockey because I lack the approval of my father. Like never feeling important—he left me, after all. All of my self-doubt stems from the feeling of the unknown, of the questions running through my head.

I get to my feet, staring out at the view. It's September, but I can already see the leaves changing colour. Soon, this forest is going to be a mix of pine trees and fiery deciduous trees. I bring my thumb to my mouth and begin chewing on my nail. Mom once told me that the early changing of the leaves is foreshadowing for a rough winter.

"Bren."

I turn to look at him. "You know I can't do that, Hunt. I have hockey to focus on. Mom has an education fund set up for me, but becoming a paediatrician isn't cheap. I need that hockey scholarship. I'll pay attention to my father when everything calms down."

Hunter barks out a sarcastic laugh and gets to his feet. "After we graduate from high school, things will not calm down. University is not an effortless task, whether you believe it is or not. Trust me, I've gotten complaint after complaint from my older brother whenever he comes home for the holidays." He walks over to me and takes my hands, giving them a tight squeeze. "You need to take it a little slower with hockey. It's fun and challenging, but it's not the only thing in life. Relax a little, find some other hobbies. You love kids. Why not volunteer at the arena and teach skating lessons again? It would look great on your application to UBC."

I roll my eyes. Here we go again. I don't think Hunter understands just how much hockey means to me. I need to prove to myself that not only can I play with the  boys, but that I also have the skill and speed to inspire younger women to take part. Just like hockey lacks racial diversity, it lacks gender diversity. Women need to earn as much; they deserve their own league. Hockey is the only thing I know I excel at. It's how I prove to everyone I'm worth something. I'm not some teenage girl with no purpose.

Hunter squeezes my hands again, flashing me a weak smile. "Just think about it, please. We're teenagers, Bren. We don't always need to act mature."

I turn away from Hunter, a tear rolling down my cheek because of the sudden wave of emotions I'm experiencing. My passion for hockey is driven by wanting to make a statement in the world of feminism, but it's also driven by emptiness. Ever since my mom told me the story about my dad, there's been an empty feeling around the edges of my heart. I can't comprehend why someone would leave their family behind. It pisses me off. Hockey, although I want to make a statement, is what I use to temporarily fill in that empty chasm.

"I don't want to meet him or talk to him. He doesn't deserve to have me in his life after what he did to me and my mom," I argue, holding back the tears that threaten to break free. "I don't need to take a break from hockey. Hockey is my life, and I will continue to put every ounce of effort I have into the game."

Before Hunter can corner me and say anything else, I stride over to my closet and begin rummaging through it for my gym bag. Hunter and I had been planning to go to the gym for our usual workout after dinner. I want to go now. I have some anger that needs to be released before I say more words I'll regret.

"Brenna," he says.

I ignore him, stuffing my sports bra and a pair of socks and leggings into the bag. After my running shoes join in on the party, I zip the bag up and turn to face him. His features are full of guilt, but I know he doesn't regret what he's said. Hunter has never been the kind to stay silent about issues; he always calls people out on their shit. He always wants a resolution.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"To the gym," I mutter, stuffing my phone in my pocket. I feel terrible for walking out on him, for continuously shutting down his golden heart, but he's too persistent. He's trying to crack my shell and drag me into a topic I don't want to discuss. And no matter how many times I've told him I don't want to talk about my dad, he's never given up. "If my mom gets home, please tell her where I've gone or else she'll lose her mind."

I know Hunter is going to stick around after I leave and discuss things with my mom. I know my mom worries about me, about the over extensive workouts I do, about how seriously I take games, about how I can never seem to relax. Lugging my gym bag over my shoulder, I ignore Hunter's pleas and head downstairs.

I'm a great hockey player, but people will always view me as that girl. No one is ever going to be in the same locker room as me, at least until I'm somewhere far away from West Kelowna. Until I'm playing for a women's university team. Even then, it won't compare to the treatment men get. I'm always going to have a much smaller spotlight than Shea or Kaleb. They have engraved hockey into society's head as a male sport, leaving women to fend for themselves. To be the best, you have to beat the best. This season is crucial to me. People can say whatever they want to me and do whatever they want, but I'm a powerful woman that's driven by passion—quitting is not an option. I will make my mark in the hockey world. I will prove that I can be the best.

Even if it means pushing myself past the limit.