Page 3 of Goal Line (Boston Rebels #4)

Chapter Three

LUKE

I glance at the countdown clock on the wall of the locker room. We have four minutes until the third period starts, and I haven’t had a chance to check my phone since sending Christopher Fucking Steele that text after warmups.

I have no idea if Eva’s okay. I have no idea if she got my warning before Helene showed up. And I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to focus on what Coach is saying while I’m this worried about his daughter.

I’m watching his lips move, but my own thoughts are all I hear. He must tell us to get ready to take the ice, because my teammates are gathering up their gloves and helmets and moving toward the door.

I look down at my skates, and that’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Son,” Coach Wilcott says. “I know you’re worried about her, but I need you to focus on the game.”

As a late season trade, I've only played for him for a few months, but I've known him my whole life. The rumors about him are true: he's the kind of coach you dream about playing for. He’s supportive without giving you room to fuck up. He’ll bring you to task, but without making you feel small. He doesn’t hold anything over your head, and he treats you like the professional he expects you to be.

He couldn’t be more different than my last head coach, and it has nothing to do with how long I’ve known him.

I want to ask him how I could possibly focus on the game right now with Eva in the hospital. But she’s his daughter, and he’s still able to do his job, so what the hell would my excuse be?

“Helene’s at the hospital with her now,” he tells me when I glance up at him. I know he means that to ease my mind, but it has the exact opposite effect.

I still don’t know if she’s okay, and now I’m panicked that her mother may have found out that she’s been keeping a secret that could wreck her chances of achieving the one thing her parents have always prioritized: an Olympic medal.

Giving him a curt nod, I stand. With my skates on, I’m a full head taller than him, and it’s weird to look down at this man I’ve spent my whole life looking up to.

When I was a kid, Charlie Wilcott was the hockey player I aspired to be.

He gave me some private lessons to get me started and helped me find my first hockey team.

When I was eleven, he was the one who suggested I give being a goalie a chance.

When I was getting recruited to play in college, he guided me.

He even introduced me to my agent, Carson Kaplan.

My dad may own the team, but Charlie’s been my hockey mentor my whole life. Playing for him never felt like it would be in the cards until I was traded mid-season and wound up back in my hometown.

“I need you to stop worrying about Eva,” he says.

“Am I that obvious?” I mumble as I reach down to pick up my blocker.

“I know how protective you are of her,” he says, his own version of yes . “But there’s nothing you can do for her from here. So get your head back in the game.”

“Understood,” I say, nerves still thrumming, as he turns to head toward the locker room door.

“This vacant look you’ve had on your face all game is because of Wilcott’s daughter?” my goalie coach, Evan Knight, asks. With everything that’s on the line in this game, I understand the judgmental tone.

I clear my throat. “I haven’t had a vacant look on my face all game.”

“Yeah, you have. As your coach, let me give you a piece of advice: no girl is worth being this distracted over. You’re a professional, act like one.”

“I haven’t been distracted,” I grumble, but we both know it’s bullshit.

He’s stood next to me for the last two periods, pointing out everything I should notice about St. Louis’s offense, Colt’s reactions to each play, and the strengths and weaknesses of our defense—who honestly aren’t playing as well as they could be.

And all I’ve been able to manage in response are grunts of acknowledgement.

I should be focused, because even though I’m the backup goalie tonight, there’s always the chance I could have to play.

My coaches are both right: I need to get my head back in this game. The problem is, I’ve always put Eva’s well-being before my own. It’s just never been an issue before.

So when I take my spot on the bench and watch the third period start, I’m determined to refocus.

But I can’t quiet the part of my mind that’s picturing Eva in her hospital room and Helene finding out that she’s pregnant.

After everything Eva’s parents have sacrificed for her and her skating career, I can’t even predict what Helene’s reaction would be, but I know it wouldn’t be good.

Now, it’s like I’m watching that scene—her mother’s judgment and displeasure, and Eva shriveling in her mother’s presence, like she always does—playing out side by side with the game I’m watching right in front of me.

And maybe I’m too focused on the imaginary scene in my head, because I don’t even notice Colt fall to the ice until the crowd collectively gasps.

I glance up at the Jumbotron, hoping for a replay, but right now, the camera is zooming in on Colt, lying on the ice, his face twisted in pain behind his goalie mask.

“Get ready,” Coach Knight barks at me. “You may be going in.”

My stomach drops as I grab my helmet, prepared to throw it on if needed.

I glance back up at the screen in time to watch the replay of Colt butterflying down to block a shot, getting faked out as a St. Louis player moves left and sets up his shot.

Realizing his mistake, Colt plants his skate and dives in the opposite direction, somehow managing a glove save. But then, he doesn’t get up.

Adrenaline pumping, I glance back at the ice as our trainers and team doctor surround him, then over to the bench, where Coach Wilcott has his gaze focused on Colt before it shifts to me.

He gives me a nod, so I slip on my helmet, then my glove, and slide my blocker over my right hand so I can grab my stick.

Fuck. Focus . . . What was Evan saying about St. Louis’s left winger?

Colt struggles to his feet, his arms over the shoulders of two of our trainers as they help him off the ice. Evan swings open the door so I can step out, and I skate over to the crease, where the referee asks if I want a warm up.

I should say yes, but I tell him I’m good, even while our team captain, Ronan McCabe, skates up and asks if I’m sure. “I’m fine,” I say, confident that the surest way for me to get my head in the game is for the game to actually start up.

We’re up 3-2, and there are fewer than ten minutes left.

All you have to do , I tell myself while watching McCabe pass to Drew Jenkins as they make their way toward St. Louis’s goal, is hold them off for the rest of the period. How many shots can they possibly take in that time?

It’s a question I shouldn’t have risked asking myself, because apparently there’s no limit. It’s like our team has forgotten how to play offense, so it feels like the puck is always near our goal. We’ve also clearly forgotten how to play defense, if the number of shots on me is any indication.

I stop the first two, barely, but the third shot gets past me. My teammates tell me to shake it off and say they’re going to step it up. All we need is one more goal and we can retake the lead.

St. Louis wins the face-off, and the puck is headed back toward me. The left winger Coach Knight mentioned earlier is moving with such fancy footwork he looks like a goddamn figure skater. God, I hope Eva is okay .

I don’t even notice the shot until it’s sailing toward me, and I raise my blocker, hoping to bat it off, but it sails right between my arm and my body.

Fuck.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Zach asks. Unlike my teammates, he doesn’t look pissed that we’re down by a point. Instead, his face is full of concern for me.

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head to clear away the thoughts of Eva—but I can’t. They’re intrusive. Images of her flood my mind until I feel like I’m going crazy with worry. Worry that overwhelms me and clouds my judgement and allows yet another goal to get by me.

“All right, boys,” Drew says with a definitive nod. “Now it’s our turn.”

Somehow, we manage to keep the puck down at the other net for the next two minutes, and when we score, it feels like maybe we can retake the lead, or at least tie it up and then fix this mess in overtime.

We’re only down by one now, and Drew’s goal seems to have rallied the guys.

With renewed energy, we control the puck and remain on offense.

..until one of their forwards snags it and makes a breakaway.

He’s headed right toward me, and with renewed focus, I crouch into position, ready for the shot.

As he pulls his stick back, I butterfly down to my left to block it, but the shot doesn’t come.

Instead, he takes the puck behind the net, and I don’t react fast enough when he comes around the other side.

Behind me, the lamp lights up with the signal that St. Louis has slid the puck into the goal. Again.

The buzzer sounds, and St. Louis’s players jump the boards and flood the ice to celebrate winning the Stanley Cup. And as I hang my head, knowing that this is at least half my fault, I still can’t think about anything but Eva.