Page 75 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“I get it,” she says, her eyes suddenly alight. I’m surprised—of everything I thought she might say, that was not one of them. I expected anger, or hurt. That I’d kept this from her.

“What?” I ask, blinking.

“This is it,” she breathes, stepping into the room, her eyes fixing on my father. “He looks so much like you, Sam.”

I swallow. “What’sit?”

Her eyes shift to mine, slowly, as though it’s hard for her to look away from him. If I saw him through her eyes, I know he’d look worn, thin. As good as they take care of him, years in a coma doesn’t look good on anyone.

“Thisis your block,” she says.

I stiffen. “What?”

“I wish I’d known about this,” Finn whispers, as though she’s in her own little world. When she takes another step towardthe hospital bed, I move on instinct, blocking her, but it doesn’t seem to pull her from her thoughts. “Your father—the accident. I thought it was in the past, but it’s clearly not. This is what’s been holding you back, Sam!”

That last bit comes out with too much enthusiasm, but her eyes are a bit clouded. In any other situation, I’d sit her down, figure out why she was at the hospital in the first place.

But all I feel is panic—anger, an itchy sort of anxiety that Finn shouldn’t be in this room. That her being here changes the dynamic between my father and me.

“Stop. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“What?” she almost laughs. “Of course I do. It’s like—everything is coming into focus. You’re trapped in your grief!”

“I am not grieving,” I say, throat feeling like a boulder. “My father is right here.”

“Sam.”Finns eyes dart between the bed and me. There’s a voice in the back of my head that says to abort this entire thing, that it would be better to leave now and talk to her later, but it’s drowned out by the pounding waves in my ears.

Finn says, “I know this is hard—”

“You don’t knowanythingabout this.”

“And why is that?”

“No—I just…” I realize my hands are shaking. I’m desperately trying to keep my voice down. “You don’t understand.”

She takes a step toward me. “Then tell me. Help me understand.”

For a moment, I almost do. I almost tell her about how Dad would wake up early to flood our backyard rink in winter. How he learned everything about hockey just because I loved it. How he never missed a game, even when it meant driving through snowstorms.

How much he wanted me to be great. How every time we went to a game or sports museum together, he’d gesture to the jerseys up on the wall and say, “You’re gonna be up there, bud. First Braun in history to reallydosomething with his life.”

Finn’s eyes skip to his bed again, and I bristle.

“No.” My voice is hard. “I’m not going to tell you about this so you can analyze it and quantify it and run it through some program to tell me I should let him go. You don't get to optimize my relationship with my father.”

When I pause, I realize I’m breathing hard, the next words come out strange, “Some things aren’t about performance metrics and breakthrough moments. Some things are just about…love.”

“Love can be complicated,” Finn says, studying me. “If you had a child, would you want them to spend their time like this? Waiting in your hospital room?”

I open my mouth, then close it. When I open it again, I wish I hadn’t. “You don’t know anything about this. My dadwantedme. It’s not the same.”

Her mouth opens into an “O”, but words don’t come out. Like the breath has been knocked out of her.

“Shit.” I hang my head. What good does it to do hurt her feelings? “Shit, Finn, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No,” she says, voice tight, “You’re right. It’s different. I just—I thought I could help.”

“Not everything needs your help,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Not everything needs to be fixed.”

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