Page 117 of Goalkeeper
She scoffs. “There’s no guilt about it. Cheese is queen.” To punctuate that, she takes a giant bite of cheesy, gooey pizza.
“Good to know.”
“I can’t get over this. And I should. Your favorite food is your business, but Spencer. Swedish fish? Seriously? That’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”
“They’re really good. Not too sweet. They don’t melt like chocolate. They’re portable, unlike pie or ice cream.”
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“You’re probably right about that. And the Swedish fish goes back to when I was a kid. I lived with my mom after the divorce, and every weekend, I stayed at my dad’s. We’d meet at this gas station on Sundays, and my mom would always get me Swedish fish to snack on while we drove home. It was, like, half an hour away, but that’s forever when you’re in first grade, right?”
“I take it there weren't a lot of snacks at your dad’s?”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re wrong, Paige. There was an endless supply of kale chips.” I deadpan.
“My bad.”
“So, my mom, she’d always get us to the gas station like ten or fifteen minutes early on Friday afternoons and I’d snack on Swedish fish until my dad pulled up.”
“My dad, he’s uh, intense. That’s sort of where my shitty day comes in.”
Paige wipes her hands, closes the pizza box, and moves it to my desk. She sits back down, cross-legged, and it’s clear I have all of her attention. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Ok, not nothing. But nothing new. My dad is, like I said, intense. But also, he’s super nice—friendly, charming. While growing up, my coaches and teammates would tell me constantly how lucky I was to have such a great, supportive dad. And on one hand, yeah. I mean, I’m fortunate—I get that. My parents both make enough that affording my equipment or travel expenses was never a huge deal, which is not the case for a lot of the guys I grew up playing with. And my dad would drive me anywhere for a tournament, even if I only saw a few minutes on the ice.”
“Okay. Seems too good to be true. So, what’s the catch?”
She gets it, though I shouldn’t be surprised. In the relatively short time we’ve known each other, I’ve come to realize how intuitive Paige is. “That’s exactly it. There’s always a catch. And it usually comes in the form of daily critiques about my play.”
“Damn. That seems a little over the top, no?”
“I mean, maybe, but I get it. I’m a goalie. NHL teams only have two, sometimes three. So my chances of getting called up all the way to the pros and eventually starting are already slim compared to other positions. The competition is just that stiff. So, I can understand why my dad pushes me to be the best. I mean, he’s invested a lot in me, so I get it.”
“Okay, we’re just gonna sidestep all of those problematic words and save those for another day. My question is this: if you get it, why’d it make your day so shitty?”
There’s no hiding my emotions. They play across my face with every blush. But now, in this moment, I hope to hell she can’t see how shitty I feel.
“You’re making me nervous, Spence. Please tell me this isn’t like that Texas cheer incident and he didn’t threaten to off your competition.”
I laugh, but there’s no joy in it. “Not quite. My dad is always full of advice for me. Sometimes it’s harsh, but it’s always good advice. Today, he gave all that advice to Zac.”
“The guy who puked on me? I thought his name was Colin?”
“Yeah, Colin Zacarelli, the puker, and my competition, as my dad loves to remind me. Zac’s a freshman, and he’s struggling in net. Which sucks for him, and for the team. I mean, yeah, I want to keep starting, for sure, but I also want Zac ready. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Like, I want him in great shape, I just hope he never needs to fill in for me.”
“That makes total sense.”
“Yeah? So, my dad shows up at practice today. It’s open to the public, and everyone loves my dad. What’s not to love? He lives and breathes hockey, he’s friendly, he’s a fun guy. So, yeah, it’s all fine. Except instead of talking to me, or even watching me, he’s down at Zac’s net, giving him pointers and encouragement.”
“Why the mindfuck?” she asks, proving once again that she totally gets it.
“To fuck with my head,” I say ruefully. “To anyone else there, it looked like Dan Briggs was giving tips out of the kindness of his heart. Like, his son’s gonna get picked in the draft and he’s just there supporting the team and giving out advice like it’s candy.
“But in reality, all I ever hear from him is how my play is slipping or I’m losing my edge, and if I’m not careful, Zac’s gonna take my place.”
“Jesus. And I thought my parents were intense.”
“He’s a master manipulator, my dad. And I know it, but, hell, he’s also my dad, you know? And the really shitty part is that I need his advice. His critiques make me a better player.”
