Page 64 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

Lowering my head down, I kiss her there, too. When she puts a hand on the top of my head and nudges me lower, I oblige, smiling when I get to taste her, when her legs clamp around my head, when her body writhes against me, then stills, her pleasure coming in waves that I can feel, her clit pulsing against my tongue.

“Good girl,” I whisper, when I crawl up her body again, whispering kisses against her stomach and chest, my lips grazing over her nipples, which are, somehow, still peaked.

“Fuck you, Braun,” she whispers, and I cock an eyebrow cheekily.

“If you insist.”

***

I’ve been so focused on everything—Finn, getting better, training sessions and games—that I forgot about the videographer that’s been following us everywhere. Recording my training sessions.

Finn’s company has a YouTube channel, and she’s been uploading weekly, giving updates to my progress. And, apparently, it’s taken off. Brett sent me some of the videos last night. I’d watched every single one, transfixed. I could see some minor physical differences in myself, but more than anything, it was a record of my mental game changing. Finn had compiled footage of my attempted saves throughout last season, and up to now, and you can see me moving faster. Making better decisions.

Now, Isaac hands me my phone, mouthing “It’s Michael.”After I take the phone, Isaac skates away, and I feel a weird thrill of adrenaline in my chest.

With Finn’s insistence, I’d opted for a new management company.

“The best athletes have the best rep,” she’d said, early on. “I’ll make some calls for you.”

I hardly ever spoke with my old agent, but Michael calls to check in on me frequently, and he’d sent me a text aboutExpectingsomething greatlast night. I met him once and immediately understood what kind of man he is. The loud, boisterous kind. Like a mean-talking car salesman, except not mean.

“Sammy Braun!” he says, loud enough that I actually have to pull the phone away from my head for a second. When I put it back to my ear, he’s saying, “—face of their new men's performance line!”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I click the button on the side of the phone to turn the volume down.

“Lululemon,” he says, slowly, as though I might need a second to process it. It turns out, I do.

“Lululemon? What? Like... yoga pants Lululemon?”

“Like billion-dollar athletic wear company Lululemon,” he says.

It’s only Isaac and I out on the ice right now, drilling before practice, and I’m glad for that. If the other guys were here, they might be grilling me, or listening in.

Finn is up in the stands, but too far away to hear what I’m saying. I avoid looking at her and turn, shielding myself from her line of sight. If she sees me, I’m afraid she might read this terror on my face and come right over, demanding to know what’s going on.

Michael goes on, “Listen, kid, where are you right now?”

“On the ice.”

“Always on the ice—good man. Now, hold onto something. Are you ready?” When I say nothing—honestly too confused to actually respond—he goes on, “Two million for the first year, potential for three with bonuses. They want to develop a signature collection around your transformation story.”

“My transformation story,” I repeat, feeling numb, those figures flashing through my mind. I’ve been comfortable since coming to the NHL, but neverrich. Not like Brett. Not like Grey. That cabin in Toronto was bigger and nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, reminding me that the difference between Brett and I was reflected pretty well in our pay.

“That’s right,” he says, and my phone vibrates. “Look at the stuff I sent you.”

I pull it away from my ear again and take my glove off with my teeth, tucking it under my arm and scrolling through the photos he’s sent me. Mock-ups of billboard designs. Me, in sleek athletic wear, positioned in front of a goal.

A short video starts, a rough outline of the commercial I might record. At the end, the script shows me saying, “It’s the science of self-belief.”

Michael’s voice buzzes through the speaker, and I bring the phone back to my ear. “They've been following your transformation this season on that YouTube channel. Genius marketing, by the way. The work with Dr. Asher, the improvedstats, the way you've opened up about mental training in post-game interviews. It fits their brand perfectly—and that’s why they want you. It’s the intersection of physical and mental performance.”

“Oh,” I say, at a loss, the information entering my brain faster than I can work through it.

“But wait, there’s more,” Michael barrels on, like he’s starring in an infomercial. “They want Dr. Hartley involved too. They said they’re sending those materials over to her assistant later today, but it’s in your stuff. Separate deal, seven figures. You'd do some campaign shoots together, speaking engagements. Before you talk to her about this, we need to do some strategizing. See if we can get the scale tipped in your favor here, move some of the project’s money over to your end.”

My grip tightens on the metal railing. Through the glass, I can see Finn in her usual spot in the stands, tablet in hand, probably analyzing every move I've made this morning. When our eyes meet, she reads me just like I thought she would, tucking her tablet in her bag and getting to her feet.

“I know you’re working closely with her,” Michael continues, “but don’t discuss it with her until I can get us a private meeting with the Lululemon guys, alright?”

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