Page 91 of Pucking Amazing

My phone buzzes in my bag on the bench—probably Sydney checking in to make sure I’m still alive. Or DJ wanting to grab a beer and unwind. Or my sister, worrying like always. But I can’t face any of them right now.

Can’t let them see how close I am to cracking under the pressure.

So I keep skating, keep drilling, keep pushing, even as the minutes turn to hours. My body screams for mercy but I shut it out.

Mind over matter. I’ll rest when we’ve got that Cup in our hands. Until then, this is all that matters. Hockey is all that matters. I’m a Simmonds, this is what we do.

I try to let that confidence fill me, the knowledge that hockey is in my blood. But all I can hear is the doubt.

I lean my head against the cool tile of the shower stall, wincing as the hot water pummels my battered muscles. Today was brutal. And, as the adrenaline fades, exhaustion seeps into my bones.

What the hell am I doing? If I keep this up, I’m going to crash and burn spectacularly.

I need a new game plan, and fast.

After toweling off, I grab my phone from my locker. My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before I pull up our Adam’s number and hit call. He picks up on the second ring.

“Ty? What’s up man?”

“Hey, you got a minute to talk? I could really use some advice from the master.”

Our injured goalie chuckles. “Sure thing. Why don’t you come over? We’ll crack a few beers and break down some tape.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll grab a pizza on my way. Meat lover’s?”

“Is there any other kind? See you in 30.”

I hang up, already feeling a little lighter. Adam always has a way of putting things in perspective.

His place is sleek and modern, all glass and chrome. I balance the pizza box as I knock. Adam opens the door, his easy grin setting me at ease instantly.

“Ty! Come on in. I’ve already got the last game queued up.”

We settle on a plush leather couch, demolishing the pizza as we pore over every second of footage. Adam pauses and rewinds, pointing out tiny adjustments to my stance, my timing. His insight is invaluable—this guy has more goalie knowledge in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body. But it’s his steady, encouraging presence that really gets me.

He believes in me, even when I’m struggling to believe in myself.

“Look at this part,” he says, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Your lateral movement is a little sluggish here. I think if you...”

As Adam drones on, I can feel something flickering to life in my chest. A small, tentative ember of hope. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I’m not a complete lost cause.

We work until my eyelids grow heavy. I stretch and stand, joints popping.

“I should get out of your hair. Thanks for this, man. Seriously. I owe you a case of beer. Or ten.”

Adam waves a hand. “Don’t sweat it, that’s what friends are for. You got this, Ty. I know you do.”

As I’m stepping out the door, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and my heart jolts when I see DJ’s name on the screen. My thumb wavers over the answer button. I’ve avoided him and Sydney for days, telling myself that I’ll reach out once I’m not in such a black mood.

Maybe it’s finally time.

Swallowing hard, I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear.

The moment I step through DJ’s doorway his lips are on mine, hard and demanding, his hands roaming across my back. I lean into the kiss, desire flooding through me.

Fuck, this feels so right.

“Bedroom?” DJ murmurs against my mouth.

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