My first year playing hockey was in Novice, on a mixed team because my parents didn't have the time then to drive me half an hour to the nearest girls' team when our local rink was 3 minutes from our place. Late in the season, rolling lines because that's what you do in fucking Novice. Mid-second period, we're down by one, I go to get on the ice because my line's up and the coach told me to get back onto the bench and sent out his own kid. I don't touch the ice the rest of the game.

I found out later he'd been grocery-sticking me for a bit before then, but never that blatantly. My mom lost it at him and the assistant coaches.

(Ran into him at the gym years later during high school. He knew I was doing well in rugby and mentioned something about how I must have given up hockey for it. I was so fucking happy I could laugh in his face and tell him that, actually, I'd just come off captaining both my club team and school team (including leading the club in scoring and being named MVP of the HS team) so he could step right off.)

(Fuck you, Paul. We won the ship that year, but the only thing I can remember about that season is how small and worthless I felt staring up at you as you told me to get off the ice. That's the kind of shit that sticks.)