Page 15 of Goaltender Interference

“Oh, that’s low.”

“No, that’s Pears,” Pears said, and flashed a pair of finger guns at him.

“You’re fucking awful,” Aiden said, unable to hide the reluctant smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s why I wear that C, baby. Come on, Soup. I got you.”

It turned out that Pears’ plans involved driving Aiden up to Storm King State Park, dragging him, in silence, around the emerald green?bordered trails and up the mountain for four hours until both of them were exhausted and sweaty, and then smoking him up while they sat at the summit, legs dangling over the edge and watching hikers in the distance below them. Looking at the blue river curving out ahead among the trees.

Aiden had never been a big weed guy—he was too much of a control freak to really enjoy it. The last time had been so long ago, he’d still been with Matt, incredibly young and lost and fucked up in Amsterdam. He remembered sitting down at a bus stop, his head on Matt’s shoulder, his body feeling like it had suddenly tripled in weight, half-convinced that he could fall asleep right then and there.

“Bro,” Pears said, as soon as it was clear that both of them were feeling it. Pears kept patting Aiden’s knee with gentle hands, over and over again. Normally Aiden would have found it annoying. He focused, instead, on the sensation of fingers on his skin as Pears kept talking: “I’m not gonna tell you I’m worried about you, because I know you hate that, but...you seem like you’re kinda in a rut.”

Aiden exhaled a small cloud of smoke and passed the joint back to Pears. He felt calmer, a little, although whether that was due to the pot, being out in one of his favorite hiking spots within driving distance of the city or Pears’ aggressively Zen vibes, he didn’t know. “I’m retired and I don’t know what the hell to do with myself, of course I’m in a rut. Like, what areyouplanning to do when you’re—you’re done?”

Pears rested the joint on the rock. He offered Aiden some trail mix he’d had in his backpack and, when Aiden shook his head, dumped nuts into his own hand. “Finish my degree, start a business.”

“I—what?”

“Yeah, man.” Pears popped a chili lime cashew into his mouth and chewed contemplatively. “I’m thinking, like, maybe a mobile DJ service.” When Aiden looked sideways at him, Pears grinned. “I mean, fuck, man, I don’t know what kind of business yet. But I’m definitely gonna do some kind of a feasibility study to make sure it gets off the ground the right way. We’re not the kind of guys who can just sit around, you feel me?”

“Yeah. I’m definitely not.”

“You don’t really seem like you, hmm...put a lot of thought into it beforehand.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Aiden thought about not telling him. About not saying anything. But once Pears got on the scent, he didn’t give up. “It was just every time I thought about not playing hockey, it felt so wrong that I just—didn’t. By the end, hockey was the only thing I had left, anyway, so thinking about losing that, too? It was easier to just not do it. It was like my brain just couldn’t get itself to focus on the concept at all. Even when I did retire it wasn’t a choice so much as it just...sort of happened.”

“You ever thought about therapy, Soup? Like. Regular therapy, not a guy talking to you about goaltending to get you into the game.”

“No, there’s—there’s not anythingwrongwith me, the whole thing I’m known for is steadiness, my mental fortitude—”

“Oh, man, no, it’s not just because there’s something wrong with you. I mean, there’s a lot of shit wrong with you, but therapy’s not gonna do one damn thing for that.” Pears flashed him a smile. “It’s to give you better skills for coping with shit and kicking ass at it. In your case, specifically, not hockey shit. It’s pretty dope, you know?”

“Isaac, what thefuck?”

“I’m just saying, you gotta like...grow up, accept responsibility for your own damn self sometime, right? For me it’s like—I gotta be the best Pears I can be, right? For the team and for myself. Talking this shit out helps me do that. Anyway, Soup, just saying, you might wanna think about it.”

Aiden thought about all of the thoughts he’d boxed up and shoved away over the years, all of the shit roiling in his chest and his head, and trying to tell someone about it. The idea wasalmost laughable. He thought about all of the mindfulness practice he had done over the decades, about being aware of his body, about focusing only on the moment, letting go of the future and the past. About how he was still doing it.

He looked at Pears. Pears looked back, expectant, hopeful.

Aiden said, “I’ll think about it.”

“Awesome.” Pears watched Aiden from the corner of his eye like he was a skittish animal. “There’s one more thing.”

“Please don’t.”

“Sorry, Soup. But I gotta know. That night you went out with Gabe—you didn’t just walk away, did you?”

Aiden thought about lying. He thought aboutaccept responsibility for your own damn self. “No.”

“Ohh, buddy.”

“Yeah, uh. It wasn’t my best moment. Moments.”

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