Page 34 of Goalie Lessons

“Okay.” I skate up next to her, point at the goal. “Imagine you’ve got a goalie standing there, right in front of the net.”

“Should I imagine you?”

Why is my neck hot? “If you want.”

“Okay…” She gives me a sly grin that says she knows exactly what that statement has done to me.

“Alright,” I point at the net, trying to ignore the way my body has heated ten degrees. “There are five—well, actually six or seven—zones, but for you, we’re just going to focus on the five. Zone one is above the goalie’s right shoulder, two just below that. Three is above his left shoulder, and four just under that, to the left of his leg.”

“And zone five?”

“Right between his legs.” I am not a child, so why does this conversation feel so juvenile?

Astrid laughs, “I’m guessing that’s not an easy one to score?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Shouldn’t be. Not if the goalie is doing his job. Butterflying.”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

“Good, because you’re not learning how to play goalie, you’re leaning to hit these pucks at me.”

“When you put it that way…”

“So.” I skate away from her a bit and scoop the puck with my stick, the movement coming as naturally to me as brushing my teeth, combing my hair. “There are two shots you can go for. The wrist shot is like this—scoop it, transfer the energy from your core to the puck, and—” My goalie gear shifts, rustles as I hit, but the puck sinks right into the net.

“What’s the other one?” Astrid asks, eyes bouncing from the puck and back to me.

“Slap shot,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Which I’m assuming you already know?”

“Ha. No.”

“That’s your best friend’s company!” I laugh, skating around her when she tries to bump her hip into mine. “You should know what a slap shot is!”

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

“It’s like a wrist shot,” I say, “but you don’t start out touching the puck, you’re not scooping it. It’s more like hitting a golf ball.”

“Except the golf ball is moving.”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“And you’re moving.”

“Yeah, usually.”

She blows a puff of air out, and I watch it flutter her bangs. “Okay, yeah, great.” Seeming impatient, she says, “Go on, get over there.”

I move into position, feeling oddly light, almost like I used to when I was a kid at practice, filled with the energy of playing around, learning, having a good time.

At first, Astrid doesn’t even come close to the goal. I bite my tongue to hold in my laughter, and when we collect the pucks, line them back up, she has a strangely determined glint in her eye.

When I return to the goal, she takes a little more time between each one, but easily gets them at least within the box of the net. They’re easy to block, and I do, but I would never tell her that.

“So,” she says, pausing before hitting a puck. “You’ve been playing hockey since you were a kid?”

“Yeah. Played like, every sport. Hockey is the one that stuck.”

The rhythm is consistent. Hit, block, scoop, return to her. Hit, block, return. Hit, block, return.

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