With the Flames out of the playoffs, you may find yourself disoriented and lost, looking for something to fill the quickly growing hockey void in your life. Or perhaps you couldn’t care less. In either case, expat Calgarian Cara Hedley’s debut novel Twenty Miles is a welcome love letter to the sport. It’s entirely readable and enjoyable for both the non-hockey player (the “ankle-benders” among us) and the hardcore fan.

It is ostensibly puck-lit, so basic hockey knowledge will definitely bolster your enjoyment, but even if you have never painted your face with team colours or yelled obscenities at a ref, you’ll likely find something to enjoy. Full of comfortable Canadianisms, you’ll get your fill of everything from Tim Hortons to The Tragically Hip and the romanticism of the Zamboni.

Hedley's likable narrator, Iz Norris, chaperones the reader through foul-mouthed locker rooms, perogy-eating contests and drinking games hosted by her teammates in the Winnipeg University Scarlets women’s hockey team while still managing time for eloquent introspection and self-doubt. Hedley creates a sound balance between intense hockey games and the politics of university life. The sport is written of with such poetic fury it seems almost orgasmic for the hockey player and enviable for the fan — a literary “I’ll have what she’s having.” Outside of the rink, Iz’s charmingly awkward encounters with professors and the opposite sex are genuinely funny.

If at any point you think Hedley may succumb to the temptation of apologizing for writing a novel about women’s hockey, you will be (thankfully) wrong. Hedley knows enough to poke fun at any gendered expectations of the athlete. She makes her case quickly, leaving other arguments sounding tacky and antiquated (“We played together, so we were the same”).

As the story evolves, it becomes clear that it’s more than a jock book. Iz begins to question her love for the game, and teammates show vulnerability. Hedley carves the team as such an indestructible family that the notion it could be shaken almost catches the reader off guard. Fortunately, the emotions are genuine instead of gaudy Hallmark fodder.

I am admittedly an ankle-bender, my hockey skills limited to embarrassing shows of beer-fuelled road hockey, and rarely do I break a sweat with athletic intention. In turn, I was dubious beginning a novel about tough-talking hockey players. It is to Hedley’s credit that her first novel is so strong and accessible. Never isolating or overly esoteric, it’s genuine, funny and endearing.