Page 26 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

It’s ironic when it comes to these scrimmages—either way, there’s something to be disappointed about. Either I allow a shot, or Brett fails to make one, but Grey seems to be in pretty good spirits today.

He skates over to us, clapping both of us on the shoulder pads. “I’m loving this new energy, guys. This is the kind of energy that gets a team to the championship!”

He glides away, calling for us to line up and scrimmage again, and Brett hands near me for a moment.

“Seriously,” he says, voice low, “how is it going with that coach?”

“Good,” I say, ignoring the way my face gets hot. Brett can’t see it. “I think—well, we’ll see how it helps.”

Brett stares at me for a long moment, then nods, turning and skating back to the center of the rink.

On the next play, Morrison slips past our defense and comes in on a breakaway. My heart flips when I see it’s just him and me. For some reason, even two-on-one scenarios feel better than this.

Morrison fakes right, and I bite on it. By the time I recover, the puck is already sliding past me into the net.

“Reset!” Grey calls. His voice echoes through the arena, and I try not to think about his conversation outside the locker room. The possibility of bringing in another goalie to take my place.

It feels like I can never afford to fuck up. Especially not in front of Grey.

Brett skates past, tapping my shin with his stick lightly. “You got this,” he urges, but there’s something hidden under his tone—something like concern—that makes me feel worse.

We continue scrimmaging, and I make a few good saves, but it does nothing to calm the tension mounting in my chest. The Vipers are my team. Burlington has become my home.

I’ve never wanted to move around, team to team, like some athletes chasing the highest salary. I want to stay here, make a name for myself. The last thing I want is for Grey to trade me away.

Each time Grey frowns or writes something on his clipboard, it’s like my entire focus moves to him, evaluating it. Wondering what it is, and if it’s about me.

“Last play!” he shouts, and I realize I’m sweating, heaving with effort. We’ve been at this for an hour.

Brett wins the face-off at the center of the ice, then immediately loses the puck to Walker, who breaks toward my net immediately. It’s like every forward on the team wants a chance to show they can score against me.

And then I do the worst thing I could possibly do—I take my eyes off Walker, and off the puck.

And when I glance to the side of the rink, I see Finn sitting in the stands. Tablet in front of her. Eyes on me.

When I look back to Walker, he’s already drawing his stick back for the slap shot. The defense is out of position. I’m the only thing that stands between him and the net.

Time slows. My eyes track the puck, and before I can think or analyze, I know exactly where it’s headed. My body moves, adjusting, predicting, and I push hard to my right.

The puck deflects off my shoulder, hitting high and missing the net.

Grey blows the whistle.

“Nice save!” he shouts, the moment dissolving as he moves right into plans for our next film review session. I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them, the guys are dispersing, skating off the ice.

Grey is standing near the wall, talking to Harper.

“Sammy!” someone calls.

I turn and see Finn hurrying toward Grey and Harper, and my stomach flips. For some reason, it feels like the collision of two worlds, and I suddenly desperately do not want that to happen.

But by the time I reach the wall, Finn already has her hand out, extended toward Harper, who is shaking it warmly.

“Sammy,” Finn says again, turning to me, her tablet tucked under her arm. “I wanted to catch you. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Oh!” Harper says, backing up, phone already in her hand. “Mind if I get a shot of this?”

“Not at all,” Finn says, her eyes never leaving mine. There’s a challenge there, a knowledge that my “emotional blockage” is standing to our right, taking our photo.

---