Page 83 of Goalie Secrets
“That was close,” I manage to say, as if the wordclosecould encompass my stress at being caught.
“It’s OK, beautiful. No one is paying attention to us.”
His kiss is reassuring, but the words sound hollow. I try to believe the lie.
The locker room hums with the chaotic rhythm of pregame rituals and the steady drone of voices. Connor is predictably the loudest, the final bites of his customary peanut butter and pickle sandwich dangling from his hand.
I smile because, inexplicably, Vanya loves that combination, too. I wonder if she’ll be watching us on TV.
“You know what they say about goalies who smile too much before a game, Jeremy?” Connor says, his mouth half full.
“Yeah,” I shoot back without looking up, adjusting my pads. “They’ve already seen the garbage forwards like you are gonna throw at them.”
A few of the guys around us chuckle. Lance, our star forward and trash talker supreme, points his stick at Connor. “He’s not garbage, he’s compost.”
Connor good-naturedly laughs along with everyone, even if he’s often the butt of our jokes.
“Jeremy, you’re lucky your job doesn’t require skating. Everyone knows goalies don’t move enough to count as athletes.”
Connor bugging me is also a pregame ritual. I toss a roll of tape at him.
“And your feet barely touch the ice when you’re riding the bench. Guess we’re both specialists.”
Connor snickers. The banter keeps us loose, but underneath it, my focus starts to narrow.
My gear feels heavier tonight. The compression of the pads, normally comforting, sits awkwardly against my hip. The dullache has been difficult to ignore lately. Treatments that used to work like magic—stretching, ice baths, anti-inflammatories—aren’t cutting it anymore. I’ve upped my doses of the pills, but they barely take the edge off. We’re also in the middle of an extended road schedule on the West Coast so I haven’t been in the clinic for a week. Things will settle down when I get back, I’m sure of it.
I flex my leg experimentally, the movement tight and restricted. It’s like there’s sandpaper grinding in my joint. Lionel eyes me from across the room. He’s sharp—too sharp. I know he’s noticed the stiffness in my gait.
“You good?” he asks, casually strolling my way.
“Always,” I reply, forcing a grin.
His gaze lingers longer than I like. “Jeremy, if something’s up—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off, slapping his shoulder as I stand. He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide. For now.
Stepping on the ice in Vancouver is like walking into the middle of a storm. The air is charged, the stands packed with screaming fans in a sea of white and blue. Canadians are infamous for their hostility against opposing teams. I feel those bad vibes radiating from all around us.
I settle in front of my net, taking in the chaos with a measured calm. Everything behind the blue crease is my domain. From here, I see it all. The play unfolding, the seams in their strategy, the moments when a shot will come before the shooter even knows it. From the first puck drop, the boards rattle under the force of our constant hits. This is going to be a bruiser of a game.
During a commercial break, Macintyre, one of the Vancouver goons, circles my crease. His sneer makes his face look like a pit bull’s.
“Hope you’re ready for a long night, Lopez. Gonna light you up.”
“Is that what you told your girlfriend last night? She didn’t believe you, either,” I reply, deadpan and unbothered. Let him talk. He’s all bark, no bite.
The game continues at a blistering pace. Vancouver comes out swinging, their forecheck relentless. From my crease, I track every movement, my eyes darting from puck carrier to winger, anticipating the play. Midway through the period, Macintyre comes charging down the wing. I crouch, ready for the shot, but Connor closes in too aggressively. Macintyre loses an edge and collides into me, his full weight slamming into my chest as the net topples.
The collision knocks the wind out of me, but before I can shove Macintyre off, Connor is on top of him, fists flying. The crowd roars as the refs dive in, pulling Connor off and dragging him to the penalty box.
“Two minutes for being an idiot,” I mutter under my breath, because instigating a fight did us no favors.
I push away from the ice and readjust my pads. My hip protests, the pain sharper now, but I grit my teeth and shove it aside. As the first period winds down, my body feels like it’s moving through molasses. Vancouver’s relentless physicality has taken its toll, every hit and blocked shot amplifying the aches in my lower body.
With a mere minute left in the period, a defenseman winds up for a shot from the blue line. I square up, tracking the puck as it rockets toward me, but the play collapses in front of the net. A Vancouver forward hurtles into my crease, his stick catching my leg awkwardly as I slide across.
The pain is immediate, sharp, and searing. I try to ignore it, kicking the puck away and covering up as the whistle blows. My vision blurs for a moment. I force myself to breathe through the pain. It’s bad, but I can make it to intermission, which is in fifteen seconds.