Page 42 of Foster

He closes in on the Wizards’ zone and I expect him to juke the goalie at some point. Instead, he cuts his skates deep, coming to a hard and fast stop that sprays ice. The defender tries to stop as well but he’s not as solid on his skates and loses his legs. As he goes down, Penn spins to the right, his back now to the goalie to see who’s following him. Closing in fast is another Wizard defender, followed by Stone Dumelin, Penn’s left-winger.

The original Wizard defenseman is still sliding across the ice, so Penn turns back toward the goal and cuts hard left. The oncoming Wizard defender follows him, as does the goalie, angling his body to block a quick shot.

But Penn doesn’t shoot as every single person in this arena expects him to. I mean… he’s the greatest. Why not take that shot because chances are, he’ll score. I’ve seen that dude slip a puck into the net from down below the goal line, seemingly defying the laws of physics.

No, he doesn’t shoot, but instead executes the most gentle, floating, slow-motion pass I’ve ever seen right between the defender’s legs, backward toward Stone who is hauling ass down the ice. The pass is made with such finesse and precision that all Stone has to do is wind up and take the hard slap shot. His blade connects with the puck and because Penn drew both defender and goalie to the left, the net is practically open.

Stone doesn’t go for the slap shot but merely scoops the puck with the end of his stick and shovels it neatly across the goal line.

The moment the puck hits the back of the net, an explosion of sound erupts around me. I’m on the bench, but it feels like I’m at the epicenter of an earthquake. The arena shakes with a ferocity that resonates deep in my bones.

The crowd’s surprise, pride and elation crash over the glass and flood the rink. It’s a sonic boom—thousands of voices blending into a singular, triumphant cheer that rattles the very foundation of the building. I feel it in my chest, a resounding thunder that makes me feel like my heart is going to explode.

I look around at the Titans fans—our extra teammate. They’re on their feet, a sea of team jerseys and banners. Clapping, screaming, their faces alight with pure, unbridled euphoria. The energy is infectious, a tangible force that buzzes through the air so palpable, I feel like I could grab it with my glove.

On the bench, we’re all on our feet too, banging our sticks against the boards in a time-honored hockey salute. It’s a cacophony of sound, the clattering of sticks adding to the sensory overload. I watch as Penn, Stone, Boone, Bain and King crash into each other, a massive tangle of congratulations on a perfectly executed play. I can see my teammates’ mouths moving, shouting in triumph, but their words are swallowed by the din. Down at our goal, Drake bangs his stick on the ice in a long-distance celebration.

I focus on Penn, the playmaker. He could have taken that shot and gotten the glory, but he didn’t. I wonder if it was because he wanted to give it to Stone or if he knew that setting up that amazing play would be bigger news than the practically empty net Stone scored on. It’s hard to say since Penn is an enigma who doesn’t share anything of himself. He’s one hundred percent about the hockey and nothing else.

His intentions aren’t important because he did exactly what he’s paid to do… get pucks past the other team’s goalie. And that goal would not have happened without his assist.

I take it all in, my eyes roaming the arena. This is the essence of hockey. Raw, unscripted drama that unfolds on the ice and spills over into the stands, creating a connection between players and fans. As the cheers continue to echo around me, I’m reminded why I play this game, why I love this sport. It’s moments like these, where the world seems to stand still in celebration, that make every second on the ice worth it.

I let my gaze move to the section of the lower bowl where Mazzy and Bowie Jane are watching. I spared them one look during warm-ups, just enough to smile at my little girl. She waved like a lunatic and then my attention was back on the game.

But right now… I let myself look and not just at my daughter. I take in Mazzy too, wearing a McInnis jersey that matches Bowie Jane’s. I gave it to her this morning as a gift since she’ll be going to many of the home games as my kid’s chaperone. That red hair is hard to miss and my heart nearly stutters to a stop when I see that she and Bowie Jane have their arms wrapped around each other and they’re both jumping up and down, screaming in delight. The joy on my daughter’s face makes my eyes sting. She’s always been my biggest fan and that will never get old.

CHAPTER 16

Foster

My hands are sweating and my stomach rolls with nausea. Having a talk with my ten-year-old daughter shouldn’t be this hard, especially not with the open communication we’ve always enjoyed.

But as I watch her dig into her blueberry pancakes, knowing that I want to talk to her about Mazzy, I’ve got massive apprehension over how this will all play out.

There’s never been a subject off-limits with Bowie Jane. The recent drama with her mom has been a hot topic of discussion and in some ways, it’s bonded us even more as she knows I am a safe sounding board. She can be as emotional as her little heart wants and I won’t judge her for those feelings.

Hell, I’m the one who had to have the sex discussion with Bowie Jane because Sandra was too nervous. That was this past summer and we agreed it was time because my next-door neighbor’s dog had gone into heat and it prompted all kinds of questions from my kid. I found an age-appropriate book and we read it together. Granted, there was the one part where it explained how the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina that Bowie Jane had a moment where she wanted to check out.

“Stop,” she had exclaimed, bolting off the couch where we’d been sitting side by side. She turned to face me, cheeks red. “I don’t want to learn anymore.”

“That’s fine,” I assured her, struggling hard not to crack a smile. I could tell she was embarrassed but I knew she’d get over it once she processed.

The very next day, she approached me. “Dad… can we finish that book? I’ve got some more questions.”

It truly only taught the basics of reproduction. Sperm, egg, penis, vagina. It didn’t go into much else, but it also led to a discussion about periods and what she’ll be facing in possibly as little as two years. Christ, she’s growing up fast.

Yeah… those were easy times.

“How come you’re not eating?” Bowie Jane asks, eyeballing my plate.

I cooked her favorite pancakes, hoping that the right frame of mind would be beneficial for this discussion. I pick up a piece of crispy bacon and bite it, though I have to force it down with a sip of coffee.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I say as I drop the rest of the bacon on my plate. Bowie Jane freezes in mid-chew, her fork hovering. The fear on her face squeezes my heart and I quickly reassure her, “It’s not about your mom.”

She blows out a sigh of relief. “I thought you were going to say I have to go stay with her.”

All thoughts of talking to her about Mazzy evaporate and my brow knits with concern. “Baby… no. You don’t have to do that but why would you think that?”

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