Page 42 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

I grin behind my mask, thinking about Devon’s spectacular season two years ago. All those “trick” shots and fancy moves that ended up winning us game after game.

The replay shows on the jumbotron, and the crowd goes nuts again. I allow myself a quick glance at the bench, where Grey is trying to hide a smile. Isaac is to his left, giving me a thumbs-up, and I even see Harper—a tiny dot of lavender in a sea of white and blue—hurrying to the control room, no doubt to ask for footage of the save to post as soon as possible.

Then, meaning to, I look up to the box and find Finn. She’s standing in exactly the same spot, her tablet limp in her left hand, her face open with joy as she looks down at me. Without thinking, I raise my hand to her, pure joy beating through my body when she slowly, as though unsure why she’s doing it, lifts her hand back to me, giving it a little shake like the soft impression of a fist pump.

With that image in my head, I’m able to shut the Maple Leafs out for the rest of the game. Brett scores again and we take it two-zero. When we skate off the ice, it’s with the sense that something in the orbit of this season has altered, setting us on a completely different path.

Finn

I am desperately trying not to become friends with the women in this box, but it’s not working. We’re in New York for yet another away game, and I’m trying to analyze Sammy’s save percentages from the first period. Ellie and Fallon—Brett’s wife—are already chatting about the logistics of Fallon opening up her own physical therapy practice, and whether or not she should create satellite offices outside Burlington.

Their low, chattering voices are already enough to distract me, so my attention goes completely out when an even bigger distraction enters.

“Okay!” Lola Burke says, breezing into the box and dropping a pink leather purse on a table. “Guess who just got the next book in the basketball series approved!”

Ellie, Fallon, and even Penny—who I’m sure is dying on the inside—erupt into squeals, immediately turning to her and engaging in conversation, asking her about the plot and chatting about the last romance books they read. In all my research about the team, I’d avoided reading about Devon’s personal scandal—he’s no longer on the team, so I didn’t think it necessary to learn study up on it.

Imagine my surprise when Penny told me last night that his wife is romance writer Lola Burke—which meant almost nothing to me—and that they would both meet me at the game in New York.

According to Penny—who filled me in on the talk from the box last night—Lola and Devon planned to be in New York anyway for a meeting with Lola’s publisher, and so planned to come to the game. Penny was practically frothing at the mouth in excitement to meet Lola.

“I can be cool,” she’d whispered to herself, quietly, in our hotel room.

“Penny,” I’d said back, “you’re freaking me out.”

Now, I blink and try to re-focus my brain on the graphs I’m generating. Sammy has been putting up better and better numbers every game, which has helped to put me at ease. My tactics are working.

Still—not as quickly as usual. But theyareworking.

“What is everyone squealing about?” Devon himself asks, walking into the box. When I glance at him, I see a tiny sleeping body in his hands.

“Lola’s new basketball romance,” Fallon says cheekily, before turning to Lola. “Please tell me there's a scene in the gym again. I have to say, your workout scenes are actually anatomically accurate—which is only the second-best thing about them.”

Below us, the game is going into play again. I watch the Vipers lose the face-off—this seems to be a weak spot of theirs, and though it doesn’t actually affect Sammy’s performance, I can’t shake the feeling that I should talk to Grey about it. With a few adjustments to the—

“I took your notes to heart,” Lola laughs, cutting off my train of thought. “And learnedsomuch about muscles.”

“Ladies,” I hear myself say, twisting in my seat to fully face them. “The game is on.”

They all stare back at me, six pairs of eyes focused on mine, and I realize I might have come off a little sharper than I intended. Penny wordlessly shifts away from the group, a blush creeping over her cheeks, and I feel a little guilty.

“Finn,” Ellie says gently, laughing and breaking the tension. “Itisfive to nothing. And there’s always film. You don’t have to write everything down as it’s happening, right? Besides, we’re alldying to hear more about the book, Lol—isn’t it about the sports psychologist and—?”

“Oh my god, wait, don’t spoil it!” Penny says, covering her ears with her hands. They all look to me and I sigh, realizing I’ve been drawn into this conversation once more against my will.

“She likes to go into every book blind,” I mutter. “She nearly fainted once when I wanted to read the back cover of a book.”

“You know what?” Lola says, gesturing toward me with her drink. “Fair.”

“Speaking of sports psychology,” Ellie says, playing mediator like I imagine she does with her kids at home, “it seems like your whole program is really working with Sammy.”

“I’m not a psychologist,” I say. But, as if right on cue, Sammy makes a save below us and the boxes flanking ours erupt in cheers.

“There’s definitely more flexibility in his lateral movement,” Fallon says, a look crossing her face. “I wonder what plan his PT has him on.”

“Oh!” Ellie pulls out her phone. “Before I forget, everyone's still good for the team BBQ on Sunday? At our place? I've got the menu planned, but with the way these hockey players eat...”

And before I know it, I’m sucked into a conversation, the game mostly forgotten behind me on the ice.

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