Page 13

13

ANDI

“Ford Archibald makes it look so easy—he just goes down on his knees and swallows it up.”

Wait, what?

My attention was distracted from the TV by Tilly, but I look back.

What the hell are they talking about?

Oh.

Ford just made a nice save.

Do these hockey announcers know how dirty they sound?

Does Ford know what they say about him?

Knowing him and his dirty mind, he’d love it.

It’s the first game of the regular season.

Ford’s in net, and the Storm are leading one-nothing early in the first period.

I don’t know much about hockey, but I’m watching anyway.

And I’m making Tilly watch because she should see her dad play hockey.

Just kidding.

She’s too busy sucking on her toes.

She’s lying on the floor and I’m sitting cross-legged in front of her with a view of the TV.

I give her a tickle and am rewarded with a baby giggle.

That has to be the best sound in the world.

It makes me smile.

I watched Ford at the start of the game go through his routine—part of it is looking rapidly side to side only moving his eyeballs.

It’s like the eye exercises he does and definitely looks odd.

It’s weird to think all those players were just here in Ford’s condo yesterday.

They seem like good guys.

They threw a shower for Ford!

That made my heart go all squishy.

They were all so easy with each other, like a family, but with some good-natured ragging…

also like a family.

The crowd on TV starts roaring and I look up again.

My eyes fly open wide.

Ford is out of his net, way out of his net, as a player on the other team comes in on him with the puck.

What is he doing?

It happens fast, but Ford goes down, the other player trips over him and falls.

I gasp, my hands going to my mouth.

He’s okay.

He gets up.

But another player from the Caribou hits him and he goes down again, his mask flying off.

“Oh my God!”

The whistle blows sharply and the play halts.

I can hear the ref yelling, “Are you okay?” at Ford.

I watch with my heart in my throat as he gets up, retrieves his mask, and then, in his trademark move, shakes his hair back.

I hear the panties of women all over North America dropping.

He seems to be okay.

He goes to the net to squirt water on top of his head, fastens his mask back in place, skates around a bit, then positions himself in the goal to prepare for the faceoff.

Holy shit.

Why did he do that?

“Your dad is crazy,” I tell Tilly.

“But you’ll find that out when you get bigger.”

Well, I guess he may have saved a goal with that daredevil move.

As I watch, he makes save after save.

The TV announcers are beside themselves with wonderment.

I don’t know enough to be impressed, but after a while even I can tell he’s on fire tonight.

I’m so happy for him!

It’s a great start to the season.

While he’s protecting the Storm’s net, his teammates are scoring goals at the other end.

By the middle of the third period, it’s four-nothing for the Storm.

“He could get a shutout!” I tell Tilly.

I need to get her to bed, but I’m having a hard time moving away from the TV.

She’s cradled in my arms, a little drowsy from the bottle she just sucked back.

I turn down the volume of the TV and stand to walk around with her, still watching intently.

As the Caribou pelt the Storm net with pucks, the announcers say, “And Archibald’s down on his knees again! He likes to go down.”

Jesus.

This is giving me extremely inappropriate thoughts about Ford.

And then it happens.

The puck gets past Ford and into the net.

Damn!

Ford shakes his head and skates back and forth in front of the net.

So much for the shutout.

Oh well.

They’re still going to win.

Probably.

I get Tilly into her bed, turn on the monitor, and hustle back to the TV to catch the end of the game.

It ends up five-one for the Storm, so yay!

Great start to the season.

And Ford only let in one goal!

He said he’d be home as quickly as he could after the game, but the media wants to interview him about the forty-four saves he made, and also that wild play out of his net.

I watch him as he talks, sweaty but confident, his smile cocky when he talks about his taking down the Caribou player.

“People probably think I’m crazy for doing that. I prefer the term ‘mentally spicy’.”

The reporters all laugh.

I smile reluctantly.

He’s spicy, all right.

After his interview, I change the channel, then turn the TV off and pick up my phone to scroll on social media.

The next thing I hear is, “Hey. Andi. Wake up,” with a gentle touch to my shoulder.

I blink Ford’s face into focus.

His hand is still on my shoulder, his eyes on mine, his face close enough to see the ring of darker green around his irises.

“I fell asleep,” I mumble.

His hand is warm and strong on me.

“I see that.” The corners of his mouth lift.

“Tilly’s asleep, too.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, I just look at him, all irresistible pheromones and athletic beauty.

Images of him coming down next to me on the couch, moving over me, letting me feel his heat and energy on my entire body, flash through my head.

I push to sit up and he steps back.

I shove my hair back and blink a few times.

“Okay! Congratulations on the win! You played amazing.”

“Thanks. I did.” He smirks.

I have to smile.

“Tilly was impressed. I made her watch.”

He chuckles.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

“Well, I tried.” I shrug.

“She’s a little young. But you have to start them young, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“I better get home.”

“Oh. Okay.” He sounds disappointed.

I pause.

“What?”

He shrugs.

“I need to wind down.”

I shift on the couch.

“You want to talk?”

“Yeah.” He takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over a chair, then unbuttons his cuffs.

I watch him roll up one sleeve, then the other, exposing his strong forearms dusted with dark hair, the veins on the backs of his big hands prominent.

“I’m really wound up.”

Oh, God.

Me too.

I swallow and try to collect myself as he sits on the couch, trying not to stare at his forearms.

“You should be exhausted,” I choke out, sweat breaking out on the back of my neck.

“Well, I am that, too.” A small smile touches his lips.

“But the adrenaline is still pumping.”

Oh, yeah.

Something is pumping.

I pick up a cushion, turn sideways to face him, and sit cross-legged.

“It must have felt good to play so well your first game.”

“Yeah. It did.” He nods with satisfaction.

“It’s what I worked for all summer.”

“Yeah. It was interesting seeing all your little habits. The TV announcers said you talk to the goalposts.”

“Damn right I do. When I hear that clank of the puck hitting the post, I’m like, fuck yeah, buddy! And I give them some high five love taps with my paddle. The crossbar, too,” he adds.

I grin.

“But when it hits the goalpost, don’t you feel like it got past you?”

“Sometimes. But mostly, I feel good because I’m on my angles and they couldn’t get a better shot.”

“Or they just missed.”

“Hey. Don’t take away my cope.”

A laugh pops out of me.

“Sorry. You’re right, you tell yourself what you need to.”

“I also tap the posts at the beginning of every period. I have a whole routine I do.”

I stare at him open-mouthed.

“Okay. I didn’t notice that.”

“That’s okay.”

That makes me laugh again.

I lean forward.

“So how does taekwondo fit into all this?”

“Believe it or not, there are a lot of similarities between martial arts and goaltending. Physical and mental. One of the tenets of taekwondo is self-control, and that was something I really wanted to work on. Discipline. It was important to me to show up consistently and to train hard. I wanted to control my behavior and my emotions.”

“We all have weaknesses.”

“Speak for yourself.”

I laugh again.

“Okay.”

“No, I’m kidding. You’re right, we all have weaknesses, and you need to know what they are to be able to work on them. Taekwondo helped with that. Discipline is the bridge between goals and success.”

“That’s really… admirable.”

The corners of his mouth quirk.

“Thanks. I feel like it was selfish, in a way. I had a goal and I was going to achieve it.”

“And you did.”

“To be honest, I’m still working on it. There’s always something to learn.”

“And physically? How does taekwondo help that?”

“So, physically the goalie and the martial artist both start in a static stance. Both are done in a confined space. In taekwondo, it’s the mat. Then you read and react to what’s in front of you, and for both, you have to be fast and flexible and agile. Hockey is fast and you have to react fast, and, like sparring with an opponent, you never know what’s going to happen.”

“I don’t know how you react so fast and stop that puck.”

“Well, the secret is, I actually don’t.”

“What?”

“Nobody’s reflexes are fast enough to stop a puck at the speed players shoot it. I stop the puck because I’ve been watching the play, and I’ve anticipated what’s going to happen and where it’s going to come from.”

“Ohhhh.”

“Although I do have amazing reflexes,” he adds modestly.

“I’m sure you do.” I bite my lip on a smile.

“Mentally, the pressure is similar too. It’s you against your opponent.”

“But you have a team playing with you in hockey.”

“Yeah, but being in goal, you’re pretty much on your own. Any mistake you make is obvious. And these days, teams expect perfection.”

“You are a perfectionist.”

“Yeah. But really? There’s no such thing as perfection.”

“That’s true.” I regard him, transfixed.

“In taekwondo you learn patterns, and you practice the moves over and over until you don’t have to think about them. That helps with goaltending, too. That kind of training helps you react fast without having to think. It helps you keep your composure.”

“So that’s how you stay calm in net?”

“More or less. I also think a lot about sharks.”

I choke on a laugh.

“Sharks?”

“Yeah. Sharks are fascinating.” He flashes a grin.

“Thinking about them keeps me from getting too in my head, otherwise I overthink moves, get hesitant, and start to panic.”

“Panic.” I snort a laugh.

“I thought for sure you were going to get a shutout tonight.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I even told Tilly you were going to,” I add.

“We were excited.”

“Wait, what? You told Tilly I was going to get a shutout?”

“Yeah…”

“You said it? Out loud ?”

“Yeah…” My smile droops.

“Shit!” He stares at me.

“You can’t do that!”

I blink at him and push my glasses up on my nose.

“Can’t do what?”

“You can’t say it out loud! The word shutout!”

“Oh, no. Is that another superstition?”

He takes a breath, his strong chest rising.

“Yes. But everyone knows that. If you say it, you jinx it.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“So you’re saying it’s my fault you didn’t get the shutout?”

He stares at me.

Holy shit!

I think he really does believe that!