Page 24 of Goalie Secrets
Sabrina picked me up, since she has a pass for underground parking. One of the many perks of marrying a hockey superstar, I guess.
“Thanks for showing me around,” I address her.
“My pleasure. It isn’t easy to navigate the lower floors. I can bring you straight to the recovery room where Lionel and the trainers set up.”
“I appreciate your help. I’”
She wasn’t kidding about how confusing the hallways get after a few turns. There’s what appears to be a classroom with a large projector, a laundry room, and a storage section. We navigate past a glass wall revealing a state-of-the-art gym that’s currently empty.
“The guys are in the locker room for the pregame talk. I’ll beat the family viewing suite if you want to join me later. Lionel can bring you over.”
Tonight, I’m consulting with the head trainer and showing movements, stretches, and exercises relevant to Jeremy’s postgame recovery. Lionel and I talked previously over video call while they were traveling. He even sent me game footage to show where the goalie’s movements might be contributing to the problem.
I took note of goalie movements that arenotcontributing to the problem. It’s a shorter list.
The training staff is energetic and friendly. When Lionel asks for a demo volunteer, all five guys raise their hands eagerly. Blake, who looks to be straight out of undergrad, leaps to the front, determined to be chosen. My demonstration goes well. Blake allows me and his colleagues to move him around like he’s the athlete on recovery.
There are questions that go beyond Jeremy’s treatment, particularly about knees. It’s always the knees.
I don’t mind that they’re picking my brain. That’s what I’m here for. Besides, it’s surprisingly invigorating to talk about athletes at their prime. Unlike most patients, the consequences for athletes are on a larger scale because they have repercussions beyond the patient and their social network.
The wrong move by one of the trainers in this room could end a career or wreck a season. And in a hockey city? A star athlete getting hurt and preventing the team from success could start a small riot. I’m Canadian, so I’ve witnessed the sport’s fanaticism firsthand.
Time flies. By the time Lionel walks me out, the third period has already started.
I think I might stay down here so I can help prepare the postgame recovery. We went longer than expected.My text to Sabrina is followed by a ping.
Sabrina:No problem! I’ll give you a tour of the upper-level next time.
I send a thumbs up as someone taps my elbow. “Wanna watch from ice level? It’s been a bruiser of a game,” Blake says.
We pull up to a group standing at the corner section of the rink.
“Move over so Dr. Kapur can see,” someone says before I find myself in front of the plexiglass where I have a sideline view of Jeremy. He’s crouched and ready to protect their 3-1 lead. The Mavericks are in the throes of killing a penalty.
The Philadelphia powerplay unit is swarming around him. Or, more accurately,attackingaround Jeremy’s net. It’s dizzying to see the rush of bodies, the flash of sticks, the splatter of ice hacked by sharp blades.
He makes a save by eliminating the gap between his pads—also known as a five-hole—but an opponent slaps the puck away before Jeremy can stop the play. A defenseman cranks up his stick and sends the puck toward Jeremy’s head at the speed of a car. Fans hold their collective breath.
From where I’m standing, I hear as well as see Jeremy grab the puck with his glove. He does it so easily, it looks like a trick.Now you see it, now you don’t.
The arena explodes in rowdy cheers, and the game goes to a commercial break.
Jeremy takes off his helmet, revealing sweat-soaked hair. He’s stoic, nearly frowning in deep seriousness while skating around the net. His gaze is cast down, as if he’s studying the cracks on the ice. He taps the posts sharply, scolding them into serving his will. God, why is that so freaking sexy?
Van-ya, Van-ya, Van-ya. Slow your fucking ride.
This the first time I’ve seen Jeremy in his element. He’s not a patient, he’s an athlete in his prime. Amanin his prime. Confidence and determination pulse out of him in waves. I can’tlook away because for once, I’m letting myself look at the shape of his brows and the fullness of his lips, the curve of his jaw and the grace of his movements. For the first time, I admit that Jeremy Lopez is a man and not a patient. A man who happens to be the hottest player on ice.
And then, suddenly, his honey brown eyes lift and meet mine. My stomach flutters so unexpectedly, I fold my arms over my mid-torso.
“Are you cold?” Blake asks, removing his jacket and placing it around my shoulders before I can answer. I stiffen in annoyance but say nothing. It would be crass of me to shrug off a nice gesture.
When my gaze returns to the formidable goaltender, Jeremy is no longer skating around his net. He’s turned into a scowling statue. With the bulky uniform and ice skates, he looks like a giant staring down at us. Heat floods my face. I’m not sure what comes over me at that moment. It’s as if Jeremy’s glare is an unspoken scolding.
With zero warning, my body decides to shrug off the jacket like it was covered in thorns. I return it to Blake with a mumbled “I’m good.”
Before Jeremy secures his helmet, before the referee whistles for the puck drop, before the action resumes and the crowd turns itself into a frenzy, Jeremy sends me the most stunning smile. It would have been easy to miss if I wasn’t staring right back.