Page 16 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

That’s the third goal they’ve scored on me. And it’s only the first period.

When I come off the ice and Jackson skates on, it feels like a sucker punch. It’s normal for goalies to switch out, but I’ve been spending less and less time on the ice this game. I can see in the way Grey’s jaw tenses that he’s pissed with me.

I haven’t talked to him about quitting the elite coaching, but someone said Finn was staying out at his place, so there’s no way he doesn’t know about it. The skydiving incident happened two days ago, and I’ve heard nothing from Finn since.

There’s a voice in my head telling me that I’m being an idiot—that I need to get on my knees and beg for her to take me back as a client. But there’s another, bigger part of me that knows I’m not worth her time.

It’s just the way the world works. There are some people who are meant to be great, and others who just hold them up. And maybe I’m not one of the greats. I have to learn to be okay with that.

When I go back out onto the ice, my chest feels tight. Brett gives me a tight, encouraging nod, but it can’t loosen the vice. It’s opening night at Stratton Stadium, and I’m unraveling in front of a sellout crowd.

“Shake it off, Braun,” Brett says, voice low the next time he skates past me. I wonder if he can see the panic on my face. “Just trust yourself, man.”

But when I get back in front of the net, I have a sinking certainty that Ican’ttrust myself. It’s like I’m a beat behind everyone else, my instincts uncalibrated. It feels like I’m watching from outside my own body, unable to sync up with the game’s rhythm or do anything to snap out of it.

The refs blow the whistle for a face-off, and I tap my stick against both posts—left, right—a ritual. But that familiar clang, the vibration through my stick—it doesn’t feel right.

When the puck drops, Brett wins it clean, sending it back to our defense. It moves to the Maple Leafs’ defensive zone, and I allow myself to breathe, force myself to relax each muscle group. My eyes track the puck, watching for a sign that it might head back in this direction.

Toronto is hungry tonight, still stinging from last season’s playoff loss. It shows in every aggressive check, every desperate dive for the puck. Our teams have been building up a rivalry. Felson is a particularly nasty player for the Leafs, and according to Grey, he’s always been that way.

“Some guys are not here for the love of the game,” he said in the locker room before we took the ice. “And they won’t hesitate to fuck your shit up. Are you listening? Felson doesn’t care about your career, and he sure as hell doesn’t care about playing a clean game. He will go for the dirtiest show he can get away with every time. That’s why you all need to have each other’s backs out there. Got it?”

We’d answered back, but my stomach tightened. As goalie, it was my job to watch their backs. To be the last line of defense, and not to let them down. And even back there, listening to Grey, I had the sense that it was not going to be my game.

Felson rocks Brett into the boardshard, and the refs look the other way. The Leafs want revenge, and I’m making it easy for them.

The puck moves back down the ice toward me, and I ready myself, the sound of my own breath deafening inside my helmet.

Another shot comes in and I track it from the blue line, taking position and making the save at the last second. The crowd cheers, but there’s a hollow, robotic motion to it. I know the save doesn’t make up for the last three goals I’ve allowed. When I glance over at Grey on the sideline, his expression confirms as much.

“Time!” Brett hollers, and I glance up at the clock. We have five minutes left in the first period, just five minutes to try and stem the bleeding. I tighten the grip on my stick and watch as the puck moves back into play and the guys wrestle with it, trying to score on the Leafs.

Toronto’s captain, Stevens, gains control of the puck and weaves through our defense. He’s fast—faster than I remember from last season—and before I can adjust my position, he’s breaking away. Just me and him.

Time slows down. It’s like I can hear the scrape of his skates against the ice, can hear eachtap tap tapas he juggles the puck, flying in my direction. He has a mean face, a mouth that naturally turns down, and deep, deep frown lines on his forehead.

Another Maple Leaf sick of losing to the Vipers. Fueled by hatred and a new rivalry.

The crowd holds its collective breath as he nears me, Vipers lagging behind him. This is exactly the kind of situation I’ve been drilling with Isaac. The kind of moment I’ve replayed in my head a thousand times. The kind of save that could turn the momentum of the game.

My weak spot.

Stevens dekes left, then right. I follow his movements, trying to stay square to the puck, trying to keep my head straight. Think about it, but not too much. Let my body move. React to the shot.

When Stevens shoots, I hesitate for a microsecond. I’m caught between committing to the glove side or the blocker, my mind halted like a computer with a virus.

The puck whistles past me, top shelf. The horn sounds again, lights blinding me from the side. The cheering of the visiting fans is sour, gloating. I can practically see the scowls coming from the Vipers fans.

I don’t want to imagine everyone I know—the guy’s wives, friends of the team, Harper—up in the box, sucking air in through their teeth and murmuring about me. Calling it a bad game. Saying there’s still a chance we could come back.

It’s four to two, and it feels like the cheering will never end. Like the sound is drilling directly into my skill. Stevens is skating pastour bench, hollering something I can’t make out. Grey twitches but stays stoic, his expression unreadable.

Brett calls for a time out, gathering us around the bench. He’s stepped up, taking Devon’s place following his retirement, and according to everyone, he’s doing a great job.

“—would you really hate ending up like Brett? Being one of the highest paid and most successful players in the league? Being something more than an average goalie, in and out of the league without a reason for anyone to remember his name?”

Finn’s voice is in my head, and I can’t shake it free. As Brett speaks, my brain can’t hold on to a single thing he’s saying, but watching him, I know that Finn is right. Brett is going down in the books as one of the greatest hockey players of all time, and his career has only just begun.

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