Page 66 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

And then I’m climbing, and climbing. Breathing and not thinking and hearing nothing except the soft scrape of my harness against the wall, my concentration totally focused in front of me.

“Holy…shit, Finn!” Sam calls, and when I turn to look at him, I realize I’ve climbed halfway up the wall. He looks small from up here. “You didn’t tell me you’re some sort of climbing protege!”

I drop down next to him.

“I’m not,” I laugh, glancing back at the wall. “It’s just a good way to relieve some stress. Now, you try.”

We spend the next hour laughing and trying to get Sam more than a quarter up the wall. He blames it on the wall, I think he’s purposefully trying to keep from going too high. Climbing is a lot different than the mountain train, or ever the skydiving. It’s not a single decision that takes you up, but the consistent effort put in that keeps you on the wall.

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath after he drops to the ground again, claiming it’s too difficult. “Just—watch this. Let me get up a full body width from you, then follow in my path, okay?”

He gives me a careful look, then glances behind him. The signs on the wall very clearly do not allow two climbers in the same section at once.

“It’s fine,” I say, rolling my eyes with confidence. None of the attendants are around, anyway. In this slow time betweenChristmas and New Years, nobody does their job. Well, I do, of course. I responded to more than twenty emails during Sam’s drilling this morning. And there’s also the whole endorsement thing to think about.

I push it from my mind and look up at the climbing wall. That’s one thing about climbing that I’ve always appreciated—it forced my brain to turn off. There’s not much thinking about can do about the emails in your inbox when you’re suspended in the air, your fingers and back aching with the strain of keeping you there.

Taking a deep breath, I begin, hands and feet reaching for the holds, somehow knowing they’ll be there. My muscles strain deliciously, and, like always, I get that rush when my body is able to do something impressive. Something like holding me up, carrying me higher.

“Wait, the yellow one?” he asks, and I stop, glancing down at him.

“No,” I say, breathing hard and trying to push my ponytail over my shoulder and out of my way. “Reach left, there’s a solid blue hold just above your shoulder.”

He stretches, fingers finding the grip, and for a moment I'm distracted by the way his back muscles flex through his shirt.

“Hey!” someone from the ground hollers, and fear rolls through my body. For some reason, instead of tightening my grip, itloosens for just a millisecond. Just long enough for my foot to slip off the tiny crimper hold.

My climbing shoe squeaks as it loses purchase and I fall back, losing contact with the wall.

I’ve fallen before, but this feels different. The shout from below, the fact that Sam is there under me. Sam is under me. My client, just signed for his first big endorsement. The man with his entire life ahead of him.

It’s stupid, but I twist to avoid hitting him just as the rope catches me with a jerk, and the momentum swings me right back into the wall. I hit it hard, and pain explodes in my shoulder, the thud of my impact echoing throughout the gym.

“No tandem climbing!” the person from the ground calls, and if I could, I’d flip them off. But I’m in so much pain, the sharp, prickling sensation of it rolling from my shoulder down to my wrist, that I don’t have the energy to tell them it was their fault.

“Finn,” Sam’s voice is cracking with panic.

“I’m fine,” I say through my teeth, using my good arm to get a purchase on the rock. “Just a slip.”

“Come here.”

When we’re back on the padded floor, his large hands are on me, gentle and probing.

“It’s probably just bruised,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth.

“Where’s that guy?” Sam asks, looking up suddenly, and the look on his face is nothing I’ve ever seen before. “Talk about not caring about safety—he didn’t need to fuckingyell! And then he didn’t even check to make sure you were okay. Just fucked off.”

I blink, biting back a laugh at the look on his face.

“Down, boy,” I say, and when he meets my eyes, he lets out a breath, his chest unpuffing a bit.

“Sorry,” he breathes, still glancing around. “I just—that guy was a dick.”

“I agree,” I say, blinking as a wave of black moves over my vision. Before I know what’s happening, my knees are weak, and Sam is holding me up. “I think…I think I might need to go to urgent care. You can come back and beat his ass later.”

Sam is moving fast, bringing me around the side of the wall and unclipping my harness, taking care not to put any pressure on my arm.

“I’d love to,” he jokes, “bet I won’t have time for it, though. I’ve got this coach, and she keeps my schedule jam-packed.”

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