Page 23 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Should we explore?” I ask, clearing my throat and stepping around him, off the platform just outside the train. We’ve lingered long enough that we’re the only two passengers who haven’t dispersed.

He laughs and drops his face into his hand. “You have no idea how badly I want to get back on the train.”

“Come on,” I say, surprising myself by reaching out and grabbing his forearm. He’s surprised too, something flickering over his face—almost like satisfaction—when he glances down at my hand there.

“Let’s walk and talk,” I encourage.

“About journaling?”

“No,” I laugh, shaking my head as we climb the metal steps and make our way up to the small building in the center. “I have a pretty solid grasp on your history from online research, but it helps to hear it from you. So tell me about it.”

“My…history?”

“Yes.” I nod, and know that by talking, he’ll likely let his fear fall to the back of mind. We approach the little building in the center of the platform, and Sammy insists on buying me a coffee. I accept it because I’m already shivering. The conductor wasn’t lying when he said it would be cold.

“Okay,” Sammy starts, blowing on his tea. I watch the tendrils of steam curl and wrap around his nose and cheeks, wisping away into the air. “My family is from a little town outside of Madison, Wisconsin.”

He stops for a moment, stares at his tea, then takes a drink. We’re walking in a casual circle around the perimeter of the viewing deck—not too close to the rail, but not far, either.

“It’s weird because, growing up, it felt like my family was huge. I mean, I guess technically it still is.’

I watch his face carefully, suddenly hungry for this information. I’ve never been to Wisconsin, but I try to picture it—Sammy as a little boy, playing in the snow. Eating cheese.

“Technically?” I ask, trying to adopt a tone that doesn’t give away how interested I am in this information.

“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath, and I get the sense there’s something he’s trying to avoid saying. Then, he turns, looking me in the eyes. “It’s kind of…weird? And complicated? Is this the kind of thing you want to hear about?”

“Yes,” I say, the word slipping out before I can really think of my response. “I never turn down information. Anything and everything you can tell me about yourself will help with the process of improving your game. I know it seems weird, but it’s the truth.” I watch him, holding my breath. Hoping he’ll continue.

“Okay,” he says, nodding, his eyes skipping down to his feet for a moment. “So, like I said, when I was little—like maybe until I was about ten—I had this huge family. All sorts of aunts and uncles and cousins and whatnot. Then there was some sort of huge falling out. My great-grandmother died, and she had this farmland that was pretty close to Madison. It was wortha lotof money, and nobody really realized it until after she was gone. And her will was kind of confusing, I guess. She’d appointed my grandmother’s brother to be the executor, and I guess he was in some gambling trouble…”

He stops, eyes squinting as he looks down at me. The sun is above the horizon now, and it’s bright, shining down at us. I watch it play across Sammy’s hair, little glints catching and reflecting, bringing out natural highlights.

“Basically,” Sammy says, letting out a little laugh, “money tore everything apart. My mom and dad didn’t want me to continue growing up in that environment, so we moved to Minnesota. I was on a hockey team back in Wisconsin, but I got really serious after that. Spent all my time on the ice. I think it, like…helped me to process everything.”

“And what about your parents? Supportive?”

“Oh, yeah.” His eyes get a little shiny. “My dad never cared about hockey before I started doing it, but when I loved it? He did, too. Came to all my games, saved up to buy new equipment—even built a little makeshift rink in our backyard during the winter months.”

“What do your parents do? Do they still come to your games?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and our steps slow. I can already read on his face that something is wrong, and part of me regrets asking the question. Part of me doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere.

The other part reminds me that I’m a professional, and I’m not here to have a good time with Sammy Braun. I’m here to learn everything about him and optimize his performance. That’s all.

“Nah,” Sammy says, the tension in his voice at war with his casual wording. When he glances at me again, it’s to force a smile. “Car accident. I was twenty. They were coming to watch one of my college games.”

I nod and look away. Penny had mentioned something about a personal tragedy in his files—something that happened in college. I should have looked more closely at it. Though it’s a beautiful day, and I have Sammy Braun on my arm, my brain starts to work this, turning it over.

If he hasn’t allowed himself to fully process his parents’ deaths, that could be the thing holding him back from full performance on the court.

“Sammy—” I start, but we’re cut off by a small man with a camera, walking up to us and holding up a hand.

“Good morning! The two of you make such a beautiful couple,” the photographer says, holding up his camera and gesturing to the view. “I’d love to get a picture of you with the scenery.”

I start to shake my head, but Sammy’s arm is already snaking around my shoulders, pulling me in close, and I have to fight not to sigh into his heat.

“Sure!” he says, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s using this as a way to escape the conversation about his parents.

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