Page 75 of Bombshells
Anton: By *strange* you mean excellent, right? They are fighting about book three in Game of Thrones.
Sylvie: Oh. You had me worried for a second. I thought you meant actually fighting.
Anton: I think you underestimate the emotions on both sides. I hope neither of them gets traded over this because our win depends on team unity.
“Sylvie?”
I’m still wearing a silly grin when I look up to find Coach Sasha Marshall standing in front of me. “Yes? Sorry.” I put the phone down in a hurry.
“Scarlet is experiencing some muscle soreness. And I’d like to put you in the net tonight.”
“Yes! Of course,” I say immediately. “I’m ready.”
She smiles. “Excellent. Get warm and limber. You’ve got two hours.”
“Right.” I pop off the bench, phone forgotten, and start stretching.
This is an excellent development. Providence was the worst team in the league last year. And our next game is against the top-ranked Philadelphia Fillies, so Coach probably wants to rest Scarlet for that tougher matchup.
But that’s fine with me. All that matters is that I’m playing in my first pro game.
I close my eyes and think of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes. Let me not screw this one up, I ask him. Pretty please?
I stretch, warming up my body with everything I’ve got. Skating out for the pregame warmup, I feel awfully jittery. It’s unlike me to be so nervous, but there’s a lot riding on this. If I can’t make a good showing against Providence, Coach Marshall might look around for another goalie.
And Bess Beringer is here too, along with Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger, in the front row, armed with a huge camera, the lens as long as my arm.
But no pressure.
My hands are sweating as I watch the first faceoff. Fiona wins it, and from that moment on, I’m a hundred percent in the game. I’m calling out plays to my girls and deflecting everything that comes my way, like I was born to it.
To be fair, Providence doesn’t put up much of a fight. Their right winger is terrific, so I have to keep an eye on her at all times. But their defense is overmatched, and the puck spends much of its time in our attack zone.
In between periods, I guzzle fluids and get encouragement from Coach, and from Scarlet, who’s just as gracious as ever about my fine performance.
By the middle of the third period, it’s four to zero, in our favor. With just four minutes left to play, our defense has a bad couple of minutes. There’s a penalty against Charli that isn’t called, and then a shot bounces off the post, producing a rebound opportunity for Providence.
Their sniper finds it, and I’m scored upon, damn it.
But we win the game, four to one, and Coach is full of smiles.
And so am I. I grin like a crazy lady all the way through my shower. It’s so gratifying to put up a win in my first pro game, with a save average in the high nineties.
My dad is going to be so pumped. I didn’t get the chance to tell him I was playing tonight. And my mother would be thrilled for me. I choke up, knowing that I can’t call her with the news.
“How are we going to celebrate?” Fiona asks, toweling off her hair in the locker room beside me.
“Not sure we have many options,” I point out. We’re staying at a Holiday Inn near the highway, and it’s ten o’clock already.
“Pizza and TV it is, then!” Fiona announces. “Hey Sylvie, don’t sit on that thing. You’ll poke yourself in the ass.”
“Hmm?” I turn around to try to figure out what she means.
“On your towel. Look out.” She points.
Sure enough, on the towel I set down a few minutes ago, there’s a shiny hair pin.
I let out a squeak of surprise and pick it up. And then I turn away from Fiona because my eyes get wet, and I don’t want to explain why hairpins make me cry.
