Page 8 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

Sammy

It’s surprising to me that, after everything, I still like the smell of hospitals.

Most people hate the smell because they associate it with death and trauma—with the place you always go after something terrible happens. But in the same way I always feel joy when I hear a siren—they’re in the process ofsaving a life—I almost feel comforted by the scent.

Beyond the alcohol and cleaners and bland, clean air is the soothing comfort of hushed noises and steady beeping. And there’s something I like about that. Something about the sound of ice being scooped a few rooms away, the low murmur of doctors and nurses talking in the hall. The flutter of the fresh,white sheets. Organized carts and a thousand little dials and knobs I don’t understand—it all helps to put me at ease.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, clearing my throat and knocking when I step up to his door. Of course, he doesn’t answer, so I push into the room.

He’s in his bed, like usual, head propped up on a pillow. I can still remember when his face was covered in bandages, white gauze and tape littered over his forehead, the stain of iodine on his skin for weeks.

“Sorry I didn’t make it in yesterday,” I laugh a bit under my breath. “Isaac and I got caught up in breakaway drills, then Brett sent an S.O.S. because he needed help deciding on a birthday gift for Fallon—except the problem was he hadtoomuch stuff, and thought she would be mad.”

I settle into my routine—tossing out the flowers I brought a few days ago and arranging the new ones on his side table. Flipping on the TV to the Sports Center, like he likes, but muted enough that me talking and the stereo aren’t too much all at once.

“When Isaac and I got to the mall, Brett had his entire SUV full of gifts. I’m talking multiple bags full of designer clothes, two things of jewelry. He lost his mind. They turned his credit card off because they thought it was stolen.”

Chuckling, I settle down into the chair next to his bed and keep talking. Telling him about Brett and how pissed the salespeople were when he ended up returning most of the stuff. Talkingabout my recent training. Mentioning this new coach I’m supposed to meet.

“I mean,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ve been too afraid to even Google the guy. It’s like, on one hand, it feels like an amazing opportunity. And you know I’ve never shied away from a chance to improve my game. But, on the other hand, it feels like—like, what’s wrong with me that I might need something like this? Coach didn’t need something like this. Devon didn’t need something like this, and look at the season he had. He literally brokerecordsthe season that Brett was out. Just…decided that he was going to do it.”

I fiddle with the blanket and adjust the remote on the side of his bed. Anything to keep from looking right at him.

Dad’s hand is resting on the bed, and when I reach out to touch it, it’s cold. Unmoving. A spike of fear rolls through me, but when I look at the monitor beside him, the lines are moving steadily. I watch his heartbeat bounce for a moment, then, gently, I tuck his hand under the blanket so it can stay warm.

“Anyway,” I start, clearing my throat, “I—”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse—I think her name is Madeline—pokes her head around the curtain.

“So sorry to interrupt,” she says, and I look at the clock, realizing for the first time that I’ve been here for hours, just chatting with my dad. My throat hurts from talking so much, and that familiar lump is hanging around.

“But we have him scheduled for a bath today,” the nurse explains. “Do you want us to wait?”

“No, no.” I jump up and collect my jacket from the back of the chair. “I have an appointment at two, anyway. I won’t keep you guys from doing your jobs.”

“Really, Sammy, it’s not a problem—”

I wince at that name, but swallow the feeling down. I’m already shrugging my jacket on, even though the early morning chill is surely long gone, and when I walk outside, I’ll be slapped with the midday heat.

“Maddy,” I say, smiling when her face lights up. It shouldn’t be so astounding that I make an effort to remember their names, but some of the staff act like it’s incredibly unusual. “Seriously, please. I have to go anyway.”

She pushes a cart in with everything she needs to give him a sponge bath, and I slink along the other side, stopping briefly at the door as she moves to the other side of the room to wash her hands and fill the basin.

“Bye, Dad,” I say, pushing the lump in my throat away. “Love you.”

***

“This is just a temporary office space, of course,” the redhead explains, talking quickly as she shepherds me from the front of the building and to the elevator. “Our office back in Los Angeles is much more accommodating. But Coach Aldine insisted it was best if we met you here.”

“It’s super cool of you guys to come all this way,” I say stuffing my hands in my pockets. She nods once and turns crisply, facing the elevator door as we ride up, a tablet held tightly to her chest.

When she met me at the door, I barely had time to process her before she was whisking me inside. If she’s this intense, I hate to see what Dr. Finley Asher is like.

“Of course, Finn and I have been studying up on you,” she continues, and I look over her quickly to see if there’s a name tag anywhere on her clothes. She’s wearing a striped navy blouse tucked into white pants. There’s a red headband in her straight, red hair, and the entire thing reminds me a bit of a sailor.

“Of…course,” I say, when she looks at me and I realize I haven’t responded to her.

In truth, I have no idea what an arrangement like this is supposed to look like. But I’ll just have to trust that the professional coach knows what he’s doing.

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