Page 81 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
Won’t be home for dinner.
She hadn’t said a word.
I stared at the phone screen until the words blurred.
We talked so easily, about coffee, about books, about childhood stuff that neither of us shared with just anyone. She knew I didn’t let people in.
So why hadn’t she told me?
If we were becoming something…
Wouldn’t she have said something?
I ate slowly, chewing without tasting, and opened the constellation book, turning pages I barely registered.
The cook’s voice rang out from the pass-through. “Nineteen up,” as a stack of plates clattered into a bussing tray. A burst of laughter followed from the counter, then died back into the low hum.
I kept my eyes on the page, but the words slipped away. My eyes drifted to the empty side of the booth. I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Her laugh from the other night still echoed, aboutMaeve body checking a guy nearly twice her weight. The clatter and voices pressed in from every side, but none of it quieted the noise already running in my head.
No one looked at me, no one asked questions. Invisible. That was the point. I stayed until I was sure Claire would be asleep before heading back.
The next morning, I left early, travel mug in hand, shirt pressed stiff under a team sweater our PR rep insisted I wear. Typically, I avoid this kind of setup, forced small talk, cameras waiting for me to trip over words. But the schedule said I was reading to a group of four- and five-year-olds at a library downtown. A goalie doing story time. I almost laughed.
I kept telling myself I could stop by, read the words, get out. But when I walked in, the kids were already buzzing, voices bouncing off the walls, questions spilling over one another. Full volume. No filter. It made my chest tighten.
The sponsor must’ve noticed the way I froze, book heavy in my hand. “Just read it like you’d read to a niece or nephew. Point to the pictures. Let them react.”
So I started. First page slow, my voice stiff. Halfway through a sentence, a boy in the front row yelled, “The bunny finds his family at the end!” The whole group burst into giggles, one kid tipping sideways on the carpet.
They weren’t quiet, polite listeners. They filled every corner with noise. Their racket left me no choice but to match their volume. I raised my voice over theirs, tried a silly sound for a character, and the whole row erupted. My throat loosened, my shoulders dropped. When the last page closed, the kids cheered like I’d won a game in overtime.
A little girl raised her hand halfway, then just blurted it out. “Do goalies ever get scared?” My mouth opened, then shut. I searched their faces, a dozen eyes waiting. My throat clicked before I found words. Finally, I said, “Yeah. All the time.”
“So why do you do it?” she asked me with a puzzled face. I had to laugh. How do I explain to a four-year-old that things that matter are scary? “Well, I like playing hockey, so I just try to focus on that.”
Another boy piped up before I could move on. “Is it lonely in the net?”
I hesitated, thumb pressing against the book’s spine. “Sometimes,” I admitted. “But I’m not really alone. My team’s always out there with me. I just have to remember to look for them.”
Their laughter and chatter clung to me as I walked out. For a second, I saw Emma tugging Sophie’s braid, Sophie shrieking with giggles, toys scattered across the floor, and pizza toppings sliding off the counter. Claire laughing softly in the elevator while I told her I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself so much. Maybe Megan was right. Maybe hiding at half volume wasn’t living at all.
The ice never changes.
It was still the same stretch of polished surface, bracketed by boards, lit by the harsh glow of fluorescents overhead. Still smelled like sweat and old tape. Still echoed with the clatter of blades and the bark of coaches. Still held its steady rhythm.
I was the one who felt off.
I crouched in the crease, weight centered, glove up, blocker low. My posture was perfect. Technically. But I could feel it in my shoulders, the tension that hadn't left me since last night. Since the pages in the printer said everything and nothing at once.
Did I make her feel like she had to go?
The puck snapped across the blue line. I dropped lower, reading the angle, tracking the stick. Easy save. Textbook. My glove flashed up and caught it with a satisfying thunk.
“Atta boy, Callahan!” Mac shouted from the hash marks.
“Glove’s hot today,” Croc called, tapping his stick on the ice.
“Someone tell the shooter he owes us lunch,” one of the D-men laughed.
