Page 80 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Shit, man,” Brett says, shaking his head and looking down into his own glass. “That’s…rough. I didn’t know that about your dad.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Brett’s eyes meet mine. “And it’s okay to be fucked up about it. Bet if Coach knew—if the media knew—they’d change their tune about your performance today.”

“Yeah,” I say, letting out a low laugh into my cup. I don’t want any of those people to know, even if it would absolve me of my abysmal performance today.

“Do you think it’s possible that you jumped the gun a bit with Finn?” Brett asks, raising his eyebrows. “I mean…I don’t know her that well, but it’s hard to imagine she would just tell you to take your dad off life support, right?”

“I had time to think about it after,” I admit, “and I think…I think she’s right, for one. This thing with my dad is affecting my life. He always wanted me to begreat. And now that I have the chance to actually do that, it’s like everything is slipping away. Everything’s affected. My performance. Me keeping the whole thing a secret from her is proof that there’s something wrong. I’m not sure what she was saying in that hospital room, but I should have had the conversation with her, instead of telling her to leave.”

“You said that thing about your dad wanting you to be great,” Brett says, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. “Was he like, a real hard-ass?”

The laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. Brett glances at me, eyebrows shooting up.

I clear my throat. “No, shit, sorry. He was a good guy, kind of a softie. Loved hockey because I loved hockey. He wanted me to be great because he believed I could do anything I wanted. I think—he made a lot of sacrifices for me. Moving, working shitty, low-paying jobs. I think he wanted me to be great to make all that worth it.”

“But does that mean he’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t reach some arbitrary point?”

“What?”

Brett turns, shifting on his stool to look at me. “You say your dad was a nice guy. I just…seems unlikely that he’d want you to go through all this. Maybe your block isn’t your dad himself, but instead, that you have to want to be great forhim. Instead of wanting to be great for yourself.”

We sit in silence for a long moment, then I let out a breath. “Shit.”

Brett laughs, and we continue sipping on our drinks. I think back to all the time my dad spent caring about hockey, and how it could have been anything—chess, debate, football,swimming, student government—and he would have had the same commitment. Because what he really cared about wasn’t me being great—it was justme.

“Another thing,” Brett says, pulling me from my thoughts. “I wonder what Finn was doing at the hospital in the first place. Do you think she followed you there?”

“What?”

This is the first time it’s occurred to me to wonder about this. I think back to that morning, Finn slipping out of bed, saying she had an appointment. I’d assumed it was something to do with work, but what if—she had an appointment at the hospital? What if something is wrong?

“Shit,” I mutter, chest clenching. “Hopefully it was just a physical or something.” I sigh, setting my head against the bar. “I just wish she would answer my texts. I just want to talk to her.”

The truth is, if my dad is going downhill, and if he’s not going to make it to the end of this week, there’s one person I want to be standing in my corner when that happens.

And right now, she wants nothing to do with me.

“You know,” Brett says, setting down an empty glass. The bartender comes to refill it, but Brett waves his hand. “I happen to know a woman who’s grown pretty fond of Finley Asher. Maybe we can work something out.”

I glance at him, already seeing that trademark Brett expression. He’s planning something.

“Yeah,” I laugh and glance away, a spark of hope catching in my chest. “Maybe.”

Finn

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the suitcase beside the door. I’ve been thinking about this morning, when I returned the keys to the guest house to Ellie. How sad she’d looked that we were leaving. I wanted to shout at her that we werealwaysleaving. That wasalwaysthe plan.

Without Penny knowing, I’d watched Sam’s first disastrous Final Cup game, thinking to myself that if it was that bad, I’d go back to him even if just to save my own reputation. But then, miraculously, his performance improved. They took the next game, then New York took two more by slim margins. Then the Vipers held out for another two games, bringing the score three to three.

Tonight is the final game of the Stanley Cup Championship, and my flight leaves one hour before it begins.

A knock shakes me out of my thoughts

“Finley!” someone calls from the other side of the door, having found it locked. “Open up!”

Gently, I place my hand on my stomach, then stand and turn the door handle.

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