Page 17 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

People love him. He’s growing up. I’m just getting old, and losing my shot.

“Sammy, listen,” Brett says, grabbing me as the other guys disperse. I wince without meaning to when he continues, “You gotta lock it down man. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we gotta work through it.”

The timeout ends, and Jackson takes the ice again. I guzzle water and watch our guys battle for the puck, getting another score in on the Leafs.

Grey sends me back out on the ice when we reset for another face-off. We’re in the second period now. My legs are heavy, my chest tight. The confidence I built up during pre-season feels like it’s leaking out of me with every passing second.

A shot comes in from the point, and I hear Finn’s voice again.

“You can do this, Sammy.”

I make the save, but the rebound kicks out right to Morrison's stick.

“Be bold, Sammy!”

Morrison one-times the puck before I can recover, and it sails into the net. I’m breathing hard, a lump lodged firmly in my throat. The very last thing I need right now is to cry in front of everyone, in front of the fans. To prove to Grey that I can’t handle this. Sucking in a deep breath, I ignore the image of my father in his hospital bed, listening to the audio of this game, his eyes closed but his brain supplying him with the images.

If he has any idea what’s going on around him, he’ll know that I’m floundering.

The crowd is groaning, and someone stands, shouting, “Pull him!”

I skate off the ice, cheeks burning. Jackson replaces me. The second period goes smoother, with Brett scoring twice more and shoring up the difference.

When the horn finally sounds for the second intermission, I'm the first one off the ice. In the tunnel, away from the cameras and the crowd, I rip off my mask and jerk it, stopping myself just before I slam it against the wall.

Instead, I drop it to the ground, and the sound echoes through the concrete corridor, sad and subtle. Just like me.

Maybe Finn was right. Maybe I needed that breakthrough, that boldness. But now she's gone, probably halfway back to California, and I'm here, falling apart before the season can even begin. I can hear the rest of the guys filtering into the locker room down the other hallway, and I take a deep breath, getting ready to join them, but stop when I hear Coach Aldine’s voice.

“…go ahead and get started without me. I’ll be in. Just a second.”

I hear the assistant coaches assent, then the slam of the locker room door.

“Yeah?” Grey asks a moment later, in that crisp professionalism of a man on the phone. “Yes, I understand your concerns completely.”

I stand, holding my breath, hearing the soft, staticky feedback of another person on the line with him. I shouldn’t be standinghere, listening in on his conversation, and I know he’d whip my ass if he caught me, but it’s like I’m paralyzed.

“I understand you’re disappointed, but the game isn’t over yet. In fact, I—” Grey lets out a small noise of annoyance, then sighs. “If you can believe it, the team needs me. If you want to talk, it’s better to do it after the game—”

He cuts off again, and I can hear the frustration growing in his voice. “Of course I’ve been keeping an eye on the draft prospects, and you know I’m always open to making the team better. We’re testing the waters.”

Another pause, another sigh.

“He pulled out with the coach. Yeah. She told me this morning. Well—I have a contact with Petrov’s agent. Could get in touch and see if he’s open to moving.”

My heart twists. Petrov. Stand out goalie last year, free agent next season. My heart untwists and starts to hammer.

Grey is replacing me.

Not only am I not great, but suddenly, I’m not even passable. Not worth keeping on the team. Nausea bubbles up inside me, pushing and urgent, and I move as quietly as I can to the bathroom in the hallway, dropping to my knees and vomiting into the toilet violently, heaving hard.

“Shit, Braun,” a voice says from the doorway, when I’m gasping and wiping the back of my hand over my mouth. Grey is standing there, eyes wide, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick, man? I wouldn’t have put you on the ice.”

I stare at him, realization dawning. He thinks I’m sick, and that’s why I’ve been playing like shit. Not the other way around.

“I—”

“Go change,” he says, shaking his head. “Did you get that stomach bug from Phillips? You’re on the bench for the rest of this game. Next time, you tell me when you’re fucked, got it?”

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