Page 2 of Suck My Puck

That familiar pain radiates through my chest. I take a second to breathe through it.

I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. All he ever does is talk about how much I suck and what I need to do to be better. That’s the shitty part about having a hockey coach for a dad. Even when he coached me in college, he never complimented me. He always zeroed in on my weaknesses. It didn’t matter if I played my heart out or if I had twoshutouts in a row. In his eyes, I always did something wrong.

I take a second to breathe through the pain. Forget him.

I force myself to refocus on the moment, on trying to salvage my performance during this practice. Xander Williams, the team’s star center, skates up to me with the puck. He takes a shot, and I catch it in my glove. Theo Thompson, our team’s top left winger, is up next. He slaps the puck to the right side of the net. I dive and manage to block it.

Del Richards, the team’s two-way center, is up next. I tense. He almost always gets a shot past me in practice.

And that’s exactly what happens when he shoots. He aims high, just over my left shoulder. I try to grab it with my glove, but I’m a half-second too late. The puck lands at the back of the net.

I mutter a curse and try not to pay attention to the way Coach Porter and Coach Sadler keep looking at me.

Practice ends, and we circle up around the coaches.

“Solid practice, gentlemen,” Porter says. “We’re always a bit rusty after the break. There are some areas we can improve on.” He glances at me. That uneasy feeling claws deeper into my chest.

“I know we can get it into gear though in time for the first game of the season,” he says. “We always do.”

He says a few more things before dismissing us, and we head for the locker room. On the way out, Coach Sadler stops me.

“Blomdahl, can we chat for a sec?” he asks.

I nod. He waits until we’re the last ones on the ice before he turns to look at me.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine.”

He frowns. “You look stiff when you’re in the net. It’s been like that these past few practices. And the first preseason game we played.”

The muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten as I try to gauge how honest I want to be in this moment. I don’t want to lie to my coach, but I don’t want him to know how shitty I really feel. I don’t want him to think I can’t handle being the starting goalie for the Bashers anymore.

He crosses his arms over his broad chest and sighs. His frown doesn’t budge. “I can tell you’re still holding on to what happened in the playoffs.”

I start to shake my head, but he stops me with a stern look. “Don’t lie to me. I know you. We’ve worked together for four years, ever since you were traded to this team as an eager and energetic twenty-four-year-old. You can take a while to shake things off. You always have.”

My shoulders sink with the breath I let out. I force myself to straighten back up. Goalies are supposed to have nerves of steel. We’re supposed to be gritty and tough and bounce back when we have a bad game or a bad practice.

I used to be able to do all of that.

“Look, I know I haven’t been playing my best,” I say. “But it’s the preseason. It’s like Coach Porter said, we’re all a little rusty.”

Coach Sadler studies me. “Have you tried other ways of processing what you’re feeling? Like meditation?”

I shake my head. “I never last more than a few minutes. I guess I’m bad at quieting my brain.”

“There are apps you can use. Or you could go to a class. I can recommend some really good meditation instructors.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe.”

“You could see a sports psychologist.”

“That’s not really my thing.” I try not to sound asoff-put by his suggestion as I feel. Just the thought of talking to a stranger about my insecurities and problems makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

Coach Sadler hesitates for a second. “Look, I don’t want to stress you out, but you know what will happen if you can’t get out of this rut.”

That dread from earlier resurfaces, gnawing at the pit of my stomach.

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