Page 64 of Goalie Secrets

I jump off the bed, because the answer is no, I can’t allow myself to think beyond the here and now.

“I’ll be right back,” I explain while walking to the bathroom. Shutting the door and taking a deep breath, I gather some composure.

“Vanya, is everything OK?” Jeremy is outside the door, rightfully concerned about my erratic behavior.

“Just cleaning up.”

“See you in bed,” he says sleepily.

When I come out, he’s fixed the bed and pulled the comforter from one side in a clear invitation for me to slip in beside him. So that’s what I do.

Our bodies join and limbs tangle without hesitation. Like we’ve been holding each other for years instead of for the first time.

The final two minutes of the game is pure chaos.

I’ve got guys crashing practically on top of me. Gloves flying, sticks chipping at the ice, elbows inches from my mask. Sergei’s battling with one of Ottawa’s bruisers, a massive forward determined to block my view of the puck. My defenseman is a calm menace as he systematically shoves the opponent away from me, but I know Sergei. He’s one stick jab away from unloading a punch.

Although my view is limited, I see someone crank his stick to launch the puck a hundred miles per hour. It gets caught in the tangle of bodies in front of me. Fuck, where is it? There! The puck rolls out of the mess of legs and sticks.

My body ignores the ache in my hip when I make an abrupt pivot. I stretch my stick for a poke check. Just the tip of my blade connects, redirecting the puck, but it doesn’t clear. Instead, it ricochets off someone’s skate, catches a weird bounce, and starts a horrifying trickle toward the goal line. Everything tunnels to the black rubber dot that’s seconds from eliminating our lead.

Not today. Not on my watch.

Instincts kick in. I dive, launching my body halfway into the net, arms out, shoulder muscles screaming, and slap my glove down. The puck’s under me now, tucked out of sight. Meanwhile, because the whistle hasn’t blown to end the play, Ottawa players’ sticks are stabbing me, trying to shove the puck loose or break my ribs, whichever comes first.

In the chaos, I make a sneaky swimming motion, shifting me and the puck further away from the net. They’ll have to invent awhole new camera angle to confirm that it crossed the blue line.

The whistle blows, finally. I push up, ignoring the rush of pain in my shoulder. My hip complains like it’s been on the ice twice as long as I have. The Ottawa bruiser leans in, all sneer and bravado.

“You won’t be so lucky next time, Lopez. You’ll be scraping that puck out of the back of the net.”

I don’t even blink. “If you’re seeing pucks in my net, you should get your eyes checked.”

Sergei puts himself between me and the opponent. “Step away from my goalie, or it’s your ass I’ll be scraping off the ice.”

The guy scowls at my defenseman’s threat, and Sergei is two seconds from dropping his gloves for a fight. A ref blows his whistle with curt impatience, indicating it’s time for a face-off. Sergei nods at me, just a flicker of acknowledgment that he’s got my back.

The goalie is the last line of defense, but I’m nothing without my teammates. If I have to throw myself across this crease a thousand more times tonight, I’ll do it.

Nothing’s getting through.

***

I hear her approach the examination room, giving the nurse instructions to let Kyle know which room we’re in. The Mavericks finished back-to-back games and Vanya works nonstop, so we haven’t been together since Christmas. That changes tonight.

“Hi, Jeremy.” Her voice is clipped and the iPad is pressed against her chest. Hair pushed away from her face and chin up, Vanya is a picture of competence and authority.

“Hello, Dr. Kapur. How’s your day been?” These are simple words, but I say it with an inflection of,hey beautiful, did you miss me?

“I’m fine.”

“Did you have a relaxing Christmas?” I ask obnoxiously when the nurse sticks her head in to say that Kyle is on his way.

Vanya clears her throat and ignores my question. “How’s your pain level today?”

To slide back into our roles of doctor and patient, I drop the teasing. “It’s sore as expected. I’ll need the TENS machine and my back could use that needling technique. It worked well last time.”

She steps forward and places her hand on my shoulder blades to find stubborn knots. There’s nothing sexual about her touch, but somehow my brain translates her closeness as something more. It’s that herbal aroma—so lovely, so Vanya.