Page 15 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

Now my mouthdoesdrop open. This sounds nothing like the man I’ve seen in interview after interview. Nothing like the person I saw ultra-determined. Nothing like the player Grey toldme was on the rink before everyone else, practicing doggedly to improve.

Why would he give it all up now? When I’m here? When he finally has a chance to break through and put all that practicing to good use?

I open my mouth to say something—what, I’m not sure—but at that moment, two cars pull into the lot. The first is my car and driver, and the second is an older sports car, a Trans Am. I shield my eyes and stare at it, realizing too late who’s in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, man,” Brett Ratcliff says, pulling up to us and rolling the passenger window down to speak to Sammy. Brett’s hulking body is almost comical in the front seat, and Sammy looks even funnier as he tries to fold himself into the passenger side. Brett’s eyes flick from Sammy to me, then back to his friend.

Quieter, he says, “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Sammy mutters gruffly, avoiding my eyes. “Just needed a ride.”

“You needed a ride?” I ask, eyebrows raised, realizing he probably called Brett after he took off from the skydiving office earlier. Anger and annoyance flair in me as Sammy finally gets the door shut and clicks his seatbelt into place, his knees jamming into the dash.

“We’re all good, Finn,” Sammy says, not meeting my eyes. “Thanks for all your help.” Then, to Brett, “Alright man, let’s go.”

Brett glances at me once more, something like an apologetic smile on his face, before he waves and shifts the car into gear, then drives slowly out of the parking lot, the car kicking up little to no dust in its wake.

When I climb into the backseat of the sleek town car Sammy and I rode here in, I battle through my emotions, wrestling with anger, indignation, and the strange, bitter sense of failure.

Nothing like this has ever happened, and despite knowing that Sammy has to be willing, I can’t help the feeling that I could have done something differently, that I should have chosen a different approach or found another way to convince him to trust me.

As the car pulls out of the gravel, kicking up a huge plume of dust as we go, I pick up my phone and dial Penny.

“Hey,” I say, swallowing and looking out the window, watching as the airfield grows smaller as we twist and turn away from it and back toward Burlington. “Book us the first flight out of Burlington, and send the bill to the Vermont Vipers.”

Sammy

One thing many people don’t realize about professional hockey is how much those pucks fucking hurt. How terrifying it can be to stand in front of one, even padded to hell.

When a player hits a slap shot, the puck can travel at speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. That’s one thing in baseball, when the ball is traveling over the field, and in some cases, right out of the stadium.

It’s a completely different story when that puck is hurtling through the air and headed straight toward you.

“Braun!” someone shouts, and I’m not sure if it’s Brett or Coach, but either way, I can’t think about them. I can’t pay attention to them.

It’s the opening pre-season game, and the crowd is roaring, their hearts suspended for the split second the shot takes, waiting to see if I’m going to allow the goal or make the save.

Crowds don’t usually care about pre-season games, but with the success the Vipers have had lately, every game is sold out, pre-season or not.

They were lined up around the block this morning, wrapped around the brick walls of Stratton Syrup Stadium, waiting to get inside. Thrilled over the slight chance that they might see one of us—particularly Brett—coming in for warm-ups before the game. When I rolled past the line in my car, I’d felt nauseous. When I rolled the window down, hoping for a cool September breeze, all I got was a push of hot air, still left over from summer.

Now, fans scream and holler. This moment stretches out, my eyes desperately trying to focus on the puck, which is just a black blur against the white of the ice. Muscle memory. Instinct. My entire body coiling and releasing, launching, reacting to the puck.

Then the image of Finn’s disappointment, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, flashes through my mind. The way she’d looked at me in the plane. How her face fell. The disappointment in her eyes when I said I wouldn’t jump.

I’m on the ice—playing a game. It comes back to me, and I spring to action, trying to block the shot. But it doesn’t matter.

I’m a fraction too slow.

The puck clips the edge of my pad and deflects into the net.

When the goal horn blares, it’s deafening. The roar of the crowd is even louder. I can’t see through the embarrassing blurring of my eyes, the heat swarming up my chest and to my face.

“Hey, man,” Brett says, slapping his hands on my shoulder pads. His voice is loud and sure over the sound of the fans around us. “Don’t sweat it, just try and get your head in the game, right?”

I nod and chew on my mouth guard, some of that familiar anxiety starting to creep in.

Toronto’s forward is pumping his fist as his teammates crowd around him. My teammates are frowning, looking down at the ice as they change out.

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