Page 33 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

And I wasn’t lying—Finn is the kind of classic beauty that sets the standard for everyone else. That sleek, dark hair and those intense eyes.

Harper is beautiful too, of course. But in a different way. Finn is beautiful like the ocean at night, reaching out and away from you, waves lapping quietly even when you can’t see them. Harper is beautiful like Christmas lights, like the flowers a little kid hands you—crushed tightly in their palm.

“Alright!” Grey shouts, tucking his clipboard up under his arm. “Let’s run some breakaways!”

I fight against the dread that builds in my body. Even three weeks into the regular season, I still struggle with being one-on-one.

Focusing, I try to remember Martin’s advice. Try to remember that he struggled with this, too.

Trust your instincts, stay in your body. Don’t over think it.

But as Brett picks up the puck and starts skating toward me, my mind fills with noise, static, making everything feel far away and numb.

The statistics Finn showed me about my breakaway save percentage. The goal I let in during our last game. The way the crowd groans every time I face a one-on-one.

Brett dekes left, then right, and I'm already moving the wrong way when he shoots. The puck slides past me, an easy goal. My body feels like an amalgamation of parts, rather than a fluid thing. I feel the lens of the camera on me like a giant eye, searching and prodding for weak spots.

“Reset!” Grey calls. There’s an edge in his voice.

Morrison's up next, skating toward me. This time I stay focused, track his movement, wait for him to make the first move. But at the last second, I hesitate—that split-second of doubt that always manages its way into my head—and he roofs it over my shoulder.

“Come on, Sammy,” Isaac says encouragingly.

The next three attempts all end the same way. By the fifth goal, my frustration is building to a dangerous level. I slam my stick against the post, the crack echoing through the arena.

“Take five!” Grey calls out, and I'm grateful for the break. As I skate to the bench, I can see him on his phone, and that phone call outside the locker room comes flooding back to me again. Is he looking for a replacement? Scheduling a meeting with a free agent?

“Hey.” Brett appears beside me, offering a water bottle. He says nothing else, just sits next to me, and I focus on taking deep breaths. Finn says breathing deep is a great way to reset your mindset, to get rid of those anxious feelings.

My therapist says I need to learn coping methods to keep from melting down when things get hard. She also said that I should just have an honest one-on-one with Grey in which we get frank about what I want—not to be traded—and how likely that is to happen.

The constant worry over whether or not I’ll be able to keep my spot on the team isn’t doing me any favors, the therapist said. It would be better to just know, to hear it from Grey himself, rather than make assumptions based on one overheard phone call.

“How is it going with that coach?”

“Finn.”

“Yeah, Finn. Things seem like they’re mostly improving, right? I mean—you were hella strong during the opener. And steady for the past two weeks.”

The pre-season melted into the regular season. I’d had our official opening night built up in my head as a huge deal—my make or break—but my Finn-appointed therapist told me that was no way to think about it. That every game was equal, and it was about doing my best.

If I’m being honest, it helped having Finn there. Watching. For some reason, it made me want to be better, but it also made me feel like I didn’t need to think about my flaws, or focus on them.

She was doing that for me.

“Sure, everything except the breakaways,” I finally say.

“I’m sure you’re hearing this from everyone, but don’t let it get in your head.”

“Yeah.” I take a long drink, trying to calm down. “Easier said than done.”

“You’re telling me,” Brett laughs, and when he leans back against the bench, he lets his head loll over to me. After everything went down last year, he’s been nothing but relaxed on the ice and off. “I had this huge battle in my head going on, back when I was still trying to grow up. Mature, or whatever. There was always a part of me that sabotaged myself. That was the part that thought it would be a good idea to get on the water ski while drunk.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth. I didn’t know he had been drinking that day, but it makes sense. When new about his injury made the rounds, I’d tried not to think about it. It could have been career-ending. Brett is nothing if not lucky.

“So what I’m saying is: I get what it’s like to be at war in your head. Sucks. And everyone always thinks they can fix you with a well-placed speech.” He laughs a little, acknowledging that he’s doing that now. “But for what it’s worth, sometimes you just have to push through. Eventually, things will fall into place. Life will hand you what you need.”

From the look on his face, I know he’s thinking of Fallon. Of her and the baby.

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