Page 79 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“There’s no—”

“Don’t say there’s nothing! You forgot your own birthday, Finn. And you forget that I know you. I know what happened when you were a kid. Something like that would make anyone think nobody wanted them. All this is a response to that—putting up walls. Calling it quits the first time something goes wrong. Maybe that’s what your adoptive parents did to you when you were a kid—and theysuck. But you have to give the rest of us a little credit.”

I take a deep breath through my nose, tears pushing harder at the backs of my eyes.

“You expect the worst of people,” Penny murmurs. “You push them away when they get too close. If you really give Sam a chance, I think you might be surprised at how much he cares about you. If you unblock his number, I bet you’ll see that he’s been trying to reach you, Finn.”

Now it’s my turn to chew on my lip. My heart is thudding too hard in my chest, and it’s like Penny can sense that we’ve done enough emotional soul searching for one day.

“And in the meantime,” she says, laughing and pulling her hand from mine so she can get to her feet. “Let’s have some of this cake.”

Sam

The crowd around us feels like an ocean of pressure pressing down on my head. Across the ice, the Rangers are battling it out with our guys, trying to get the puck.

I’m trying to keep my head in the game, to focus on what’s happening here and now, but my mind keeps drifting to yesterday, sitting in a hard plastic chair, talking to my father’s doctor. I’d been calling and texting Finn since the moment my head cleared, but she wasn’t picking up.

“Mr. Braun,” Dr. Patel had said, “your father’s intracranial pressure has increased significantly in the last few hours.”

Now, a Ranger steals the puck and carries it mid-rink. Brett slams into him and they battle against the boards. There’s a headache brewing low in the back of my head, making it hard to see straight. I try to keep my eyes on the puck.

“The latest CT scan shows evidence of a cerebral edema,” Dr. Patel said, “brain swelling—despite our interventions with mannitol and hypertonic saline.”

Brett and the guys get the puck back and head for the Ranger goalie, who stands perfectly positioned in his crease, calm and focused—everything I'm not right now. He makes a glove save look effortless as Brett tries to go top shelf. Our guys are playing their hearts out, generating chances, but it’s like they’re playing against a wall.

“We’re also seeing decreased electrical activity in his EEG readings,” Dr. Patel said, “Mr. Braun, I need you to understand that these are concerning developments. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

But my father has been stable for years. Always, I thought, on the brink of coming back.

The Ranger center dangles through our defense, making us look like we’re skating through mud. This should be readable—we’ve studied hours of this team’s tendencies, watched every move this line can pull. But all I can see is Finn’s face in the hospital room. The way she stepped back from me, hurt and betrayal written across her features.

The puck hits the back of the net. Five to nothing.

The goal horn blares, and that stupid recording of “Lady Liberty” plays over the speakers. The Ranger’s center skates past our bench doing his signature celebration, and I half expect Grey to pull me. To send in our backup and end this nightmare.

But he doesn't. Maybe he’s remembering all the times I bounced back this season. All the times Finn helped me find my focus again.

“Sometimes with traumatic brain injuries,” Dr. Patel said, “patients can experience sudden deterioration even after long periods of stability. We’re monitoring him closely and have already adjusted his medication protocol, but…you should consider calling any family members who might want to be here.”

There’s nobody to call. Just me.

When we break to the locker room, Grey’s face is made of stone. He gives a no-nonsense speech about leaving our shit behind when we get on the ice, and his eyes connect with mine. I feel like I’m not fully present.

The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve lost the game five to one. Grey is pissed, and the crowd is rowdy, laughing and hollering at us as we exit to our locker room.

It’s only the first game of the series, but Grey warned us that this one would help set the tone. In lieu of a post-game speech,he just gives us a long look before slamming out the door, his voice booming through the hallway as he speaks to our assistant coach.

We’re just walking into the hotel lobby when Brett catches me by the sleeve.

“Yo, Braun,” he says, breathing hard. “What the hell is going on?”

I glance around at the other guys, still feeling like I’m a specimen floating in a tank of water. All eyes on me, and nothing I can do.

“My dad’s dying,” I say, before I can stop myself. Brett’s eyes go wide, and he pulls me over to the bar, sitting me down.

Finn would say no alcohol—hell,Coachwould say no alcohol, especially not right at the start of the championship series, but when Brett orders me a whiskey on the rocks, I take a sip, closing my eyes at the feeling of the soothing scorch of it right down my throat.

And with that first sip of alcohol down, the entire story comes tumbling out. About my dad, and how I’ve been visiting him, hoping something might turn around. How Finn found me, and it felt like she was saying I should pull the plug. How she hasn’t answered any of my messages or calls in the few days that have passed.

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