Page 22 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Oh,” I laugh, fingers shaking as I grip the armrest, “I’m good.”

The strangest thing about this experience is that if anyone asked, I never would have said I was afraid of heights. But as the train continues to chug along and my ears pop, and I think about my car down below, getting smaller and smaller, I feel sick.

I realize that through the years, I’ve just casually avoided anything with heights, rather than acknowledging something was wrong. Too busy to go to the amusement park. Tired and grouchy, not wanting to hike in the foothills. Taking sleep meds and conking out on every flight to an away game so I could “arrive ready.”

“You know,” Finn says, her voice quiet, “The whole point of the exercise is to face your fear, Sammy. Small steps.”

The whole point of the exercise is to face my fear.

But I don’t want to.

Once again, I can’t help wondering what the hell being on this train, and feeling this sick about the height, has to do with getting better at hockey. Seems like a needless exercise in feeling like shit, rather than doing something that will actually help me improve.

What I need is more practice. Someone to critique my form. Maybe even focus on nutrition and hormones, and whatever else they’ve been looking for when they’ve testing my blood and hair.

Finn is looking right at me when I open my eyes, and it’s like all those thoughts flicker in and out of my head in an instant.

I want to see if she really can do what she says. If she can make me into something great. And I need to trust her, to go along with what she says, to know that I’ve given this thing an honest shot.

But more than anything, I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want her to get on a flight and fly back to California. The realization washes over me—as little as I know about her, I like her, and I want her to stay.

“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat and pushing to my feet. Finn’s eyes widen as I move to the window, forcing myself to look out. “Small steps.”

Finn

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The conductor’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I watch Sammy carefully. He still has his face turned to the window, and his fingers are in a vice grip on the arm rests.

The view around us is breath-taking. At first, when we started up the side of the mountain, there was so much lush greenery it felt like we were trudging through a jungle. But now, with nothing but the occasional scrappy tree clinging to the mountain slope, the views are wide open.

Here, at the top of the mountain, we can look out and see all of Vermont. Sammy looks green.

“Welcome to the summit of Mount Mansfield, the highest point in our great state of Vermont. Whether you’re a native Vermonter or coming from somewhere else, it’s worth it to take a look around.”

Sammy clears his throat and shifts in his seat, his gaze dragging along the wall behind me before finally connecting with my eyes. I try to give him a reassuring smile.

I can’t connect to this feeling he’s having. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life.

Penny’s voice pops into my head:You’re afraid of getting too close to people, Finn.

I push that away, arguing internally—I’ve never been afraid of somethingtangible. And besides, there’s a huge difference in being afraid of something and choosing to avoid that thing out of logical necessity. I’m notafraidof the bubonic plague, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be rolling around in it, either.

“Right now,” the conductor continues, “you’re about to exit onto what some call the ‘head’ of the mountain. From the east, the top of this mountain somewhat resembles a human face, looking toward the sky.”

I realize, with a start, that I’m still staring at Sammy, who has a pink blush over his cheeks. Blinking and quickly looking away, I try to ignore the way my heart skips in my chest.

“The current temperature at the summit is forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, about fifteen degrees cooler than at the base, so you'll want to grab those jackets we recommended. The observation deck offers a stunning 360-degree view of the Green Mountains, and on a clear day like today, you can see all the way to New Hampshire's White Mountains to the east, New York's Adirondacks to the west, and even catch a glimpse of Mount Royal in Montreal to the north.”

Before I can start to over think it, I stand, brushing out my skirt and shrugging on my soft wool coat. Sammy stands too, and our arms brush as he shrugs on his jacket. Our eyes connect again, and I make a point of looking away.

Sammy is a client, nothing more.

“The summit can get quite windy, so please hold onto your belongings. You'll have forty-five minutes to explore before we begin our descent. And remember—you're currently standing at the highest point for over a hundred miles in any direction. Take it in, folks. This is what being on top of the world feels like!”

I know it’s just a marketing pitch, but I almost laugh—I’ve been onmuchtaller mountains before. But Sammy looks uneven on his feet as we make our way out of the train. His hands grip the railing on the way down, and I catch his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Without meaning to, my eyes travel over his chest, over to his shoulders then down his arms, to the spot where his wrists show just beyond the cuff of his jacket.

“Finn?” he asks, and I fight the heat rising to my cheeks when I look to his face again. I almost expect some sort of smug look—something from an athlete to tell me he knows I was checking him out—but instead, he just looks mildly nauseous.

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