underwear now. Why does men's underwear always come in a package of three?"

Boswell has brought her 'lucky charm," her eight-month old son, who seems to get a kick out of the women's face masks, which are a little too Hannibal Lecter for me.

Before dressing, Furneaux takes a pink hand towel out of her bag and lays it on the slimy concrete ground, so she has something to stand on while changing. Yes, hear them roar, they are hockey players, but who needs foot disease?

We had to wait before entering the change room. The men, who played previously, were still changing. While waiting, Joanne shows off a new French manicure. She doesn't worry about breaking a nail. (You can only get a French manicure when your nails are long.)

"It does hurt when they get bent," admits Furneaux, "But with the gloves on, you can't really break them."

Camellia joins us. She's tall, thin, and gorgeous, and looks as if she just walked out of a fashion magazine, like many of the women on the team. "I never thought I'd play hockey," she says. "Even the night before the first game, I was like, no way I'm going to do this."'

Still, she's here. Like players in numerous other women's leagues across the country, she's addicted.

I'm amazed, not only because they play, but they can skate without falling.

"Oh, you should have seen our first game," laughs Furneaux. "There wasn't a lot of standing going on."

There have been injuries, including a broken tail bone and broken ribs. I watched the Women's Olympic team. I would not want to go near any of them on the ice, let alone bump into one of them by accident on the street.

"Yes, we sort of body check," says Furneaux. "But it's more like, 'Oops, I'm sorry I'm going to have to do this,' and then we bang into them."

When the men's team finally exits the locker room, the women enter. I need to take a moment. The room smells so disgusting of sweat and BO, it's almost as if my head was literally stuffed inside someone's hockey bag. I think I may be sick to my stomach.

"Oh you get used to that. Keep moving," says Furneaux.

One by one, the women arrive. You realize, although you're in a locker room and they are putting on 'Jills,' they could in fact be in a beauty salon. One of the women moans about a guy not calling. Another asks how a teammate's vacation went. Another talks about when and where she wears lipstick. A couple of the teammates, we learn, are stuck in Orillia, north of Toronto, in a snow storm and can't make it. But these players aren't worried about what it means for their game.

"They are OK, aren't they?," everyone asks, concerned.

Women care.

"When we lost last week, 13-1, I got off the ice and didn't know what the final score was," says Furneaux. "I asked Sheila and she just said, 'Don't you worry about that dear."'

"I feel really guilty when we lose," says Furneaux. Unlike most men, in competitive sports, these women are more surprised than anything if they win.

Plus feeling guilty? Interesting.

Some of their boyfriends, or husbands, watch from the stands. During their games, the men act as sherpas (they carry their gals' bags) or like soccer moms (they just have to put in their two cents. They can't help it.)

"Our first game, none of us really knew how to get dressed. So all the guys came into the locker room to dress us," says Furneaux.

Rachel's laces, I notice, are fluorescent pink. "They pay homage to the first women's Olympic hockey team who wore pinkish jerseys," she explains.

Once dressed, the women laugh at how big and bulky they look and wres~de with each other as a joke. "Look," laughs one pointing at Furneaux's crotch. "It looks like you have a hard-on!"

"I think I smell," moans Furneaux.

"Yeah," I say. "You do." The stench is from her uniform, like all hockey uniforms.

At game time, the women work their way to the ice. (There was no real plan except the captain did tell them to "play aggressive.")

Their clothes are folded neatly on the benches, their shoes in an orderly line. Bras are hanging off the racks.

I sit in the stands to watch. There are a few males near me. "What team are you voting for?" I ask. Watching these women play is like watching a really good kids' team play. It's kind of slow, but they know what direction the puck needs to go.

Ten minutes later, there's a cheer. I look up to see the Ragtimes have scored. I missed it, too busy talking with the National Post photographer about her recent engagement and upcoming wedding. Somehow, though, I think the team would understand.