Page 20 of Goalie Lessons

“This is all focus, O’Connor. Just follow through, let your body take over. You’re being too stiff, man.”

I breathe, meet his eyes and let him know I’ve heard him. Johnson and Chen exchange another look, then pass and rocket another puck my way.

It slips through.

“Fuck,” I hiss it to myself, the word bouncing around in my helmet. But even if the guys can’t hear me, they know the sentiment in my head. My body feels like a rough amalgamation of parts connected with strings, limbs difficult for me to control. Second by second, I alternate between feeling way too tense, then like a rag doll, arms hanging on without power.

Across the ice, Coach Vic blows his whistle, and we all turn to look.

“Scrimmage!” he hollers. “Take five and get back out here!”

We break apart, going to the side for water and a minute of rest before returning to the ice. I find my position in front of the goal. On the other side, Xavier Martinez hunkers down to guard the other one.

Nearly a full decade older than me, Martinez has a lot more experience and knowledge. But when I came onto the team, I brought a fresh feeling, replacing a guy who was retiring. I’d left college early to come to the NHL, and was younger than the rest of the guys.

That was two seasons ago, and since then, I’ve only upped my play time, finally tipping the scales and taking more from Martinez. He doesn’t seem to mind—he’s headed for retirement soon. My hands start to shake as I grip my stick, watching Coach Vic skate around, speaking with different players before we launch into the scrimmage.

Goalies typically have to share time on the ice—it’s too taxing to play the whole game—but I want more of that time, rather than less. When a new, younger goalie comes onto the team, I want to hold my own a little longer. Keep that play time I’ve earned. And if I don’t get my shit together, Coach might just start re-thinking the minutes I’ve earned.

We jump right into the scrimmage, and my bad luck continues. Each time the guys get the puck on my side of the ice, my body starts to lock up, waves of heat rushing from head to toe. And the knowledge that I’m struggling only makes it worse—my movements more awkward, slower, like it’s taking more and more time for me to process.

The scrimmage goes on for twenty more minutes, with Coach pausing to have the back-up guys adjust their strategy, emulate the team we’ll be playing next. He blows the whistle and tells a forward to “feel the flow” then recites a line of poetry before launching us back into it.

Somehow, that works for the forward, who’s able to launch past our defense—his passes quick and snappy—before he gets the puck back and rockets it right toward me.

It slips through. If this practice counted toward my save percentage, I’d be fucked.

“Shake it off, O’Connor.”

I blink, realizing Coach is at my side, and the other guys are helmets off, guzzling water and heading for the locker room.

“Sorry, Coach. I—”

“Hey.” He stops, eyes serious as he peers at me, his gray hair puffing out from under his ball cap. “You don’t have to tell me, O’Connor. Word travels fast around here. I know the pressure you’re under right now. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss. You do the best you can, give it your all on the ice, and things will work out.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, then skates away, leaving me feeling a strange mix of heavy hope, disappointment, and the oddest sense of dread that this time, Coach might just have no idea what he’s talking about.

Astrid

“Ohmygosh,youmust be Astrid!”

I pause at the doorway, surprised when a tall woman with a puff of blonde curls hurls herself at me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and drawing me in for a hug. When I look over her shoulder, eyes connecting with the girl at the front desk, she gives me a sheepish expression and a shrug, likeSorry, she does this to everyone.

“Wow, uh,” I blink, trying to gather my thoughts. “Nice to meet you…?”

She releases me and pulls back, sticking her hand out to me and shaking it robustly.

“Georgia,” she says, smile reaching her eyes, crinkling in the corners. “Supervisor here. We’ve been begging for someone to do what you’re here to do forages. Nobody realizes what these kids are going through, and how hard it is for our workers and volunteers to manage the mental health side of things.”

“Oh, sure.” I take a step back to regain some personal space. “I’m happy to be here.”

“This is Lucy.” Georgia gestures to the front desk with a flourish. “If you call, she’s the one to answer the phone. Let me show you to your office.”

Gripping my bag tightly in my hands, I follow her. She talks the entire time, pointing out different details of the facility. During the school year, they specialize in after-school programs for working families, and during the summer, they take kids so parents don’t have to interrupt work.

“Low cost or no cost,” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder. “We work really hard to get money into this place. The government is always reducing funding, so it takes a lot from the community to keep us going.”

“Well, I’m glad you have room for my position.”

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