Page 31 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Your numbers are improving across the board,” I say. “Four more pre-season games down, and the data is skewing in our favor. Already your performance is better than before.”

Sammy is sitting in my office, arms crossed, thumbs tucked under his biceps. My eyes keep catching on the way his shirt strains over his chest, and I force myself to look at the chart I have up on the projector instead.

“Reaction time is up twelve percent,” I continue. “Save percentage during practice has increased by eight points. Even your cardiovascular metrics are better.”

“Great,” he says, nodding. I study him, trying to see how he feels about all this. Sometimes, guys get too excited about the early progress. But Sammy looks even.

“We can do better.” I tap to the next slide, which is a detailed plan that adjusts several of his levers. Pushing him harder. Asking for more.

“These are the best numbers I've had in my career,” he says, not indignant, but maybe just confused. His eyes flick to the screen and back to me.

"Exactly.” I tap my tablet against my palm. Today, Sammy’s in jeans and a deep green hoodie, a brown Carhartt jacket thrown over top. He looks like he could be splitting logs in his backyard, wiping away the sweat with the back of his hand, pushing his hair from his eyes and—

“Which means you're capable of more,” I say quickly, pushing my fantasy from my head. “These are pre-season game numbers, and we can’t forget that. Grey is doing me a favor by putting you in now so we can collect more data, but you’re not facing up against the full force of these other teams. We’re going to see a steep decline again on Saturday, with the first regular season game.”

Instead of allowing my traitorous mind to continue casting Sammy in various roles, I stand, pacing behind my desk, fingers tapping against the back of my tablet as I talk. “Your nutrition logs show a consistent lack in some key minerals. And while your sleep schedule is consistent, you could be getting an extra twenty minutes if we adjusted your evening routine.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding again, his feet tapping slowly on the floor.

Those earnest green eyes bore straight into me when I turn and look at him.

I keep my voice level. “The point is to maximize your potential. And you have so much more potential than this. Your breakaway saves are still inconsistent. Your mental game needs work—I saw you hesitate in the third period last night.”

“We won that game,” he points out. “Four to one.”

“Thatpre-seasongame,” I counter, “and it could have been a shutout if you'd been fully focused.”

The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see him flinch slightly. Biting my lip, I let out a sigh. I’m still tense from my appointment yesterday. “I'm not trying to be harsh, Sammy. I just know what you're capable of. And I know there’s still something holding you back.”

“The Harper thing? I—”

“Yes, the Harper thing,” I say, setting my tablet down and rounding my desk. “I’ve worked with countless athletes. We can fix your nutrition and optimize your training, but until you face that thing—the thing hanging over your head. And right now, it looks like that thing is Harper. Unless you have a different idea?”

He stares at me for a long moment, then looks away.

“No,” he says, and I watch his throat bob. “I do not.”

“So, I think we go with the Harper angle.” I grab my computer chair and take a seat across from him. “Go ahead.”

“What, call her?”

“No, show me how you’d ask her out. You have all these opportunities—but you always end up choking. So maybe you just need to practice. Get the words out.”

“I know how to ask a girl out, Finn.”

“But do you know how to ask awomanout?”

“Don’t be cheesy,” he laughs, rolling his eyes.

“So, show me.”

“Showyou?”

“Yes, how would you ask me out?”

He blinks, jerking back a bit. I can’t help it—my eyes skip around his face, from his eyes, over his flushed skin, and to his lips.

Sometimes, the athletes I work with aren’t the most handsome. They don’t have to be, if they’re skilled—you can look like a thumb and still make millions of dollars in the NFL.

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