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16

FORD

I started the season with a bang in that first game.

I was proud of myself for that.

I’ve been working my whole life to be the best goalie I can be.

My play that night earned me the start in the next game.

That game didn’t go so well.

We lost, four-three.

I let in four fucking goals.

And the game after that, I let in four again.

Except that game we won, at least.

But these numbers are not making my stats look good.

Goals against average, save percentage—not looking stellar right now.

I’m right in the middle of the pack, and that is not where I want to be.

Goodbye, Jennings Trophy.

The season has just started.

And I’m so fucking tired.

I’m on my way to the arena for tonight’s game, taking the route I always do.

I’m starting tonight and much as I want to play every game I can, I have a lump of dread in my gut.

I have to do better.

I take responsibility for my failures.

I don’t want to blame anyone else for my shitty play.

But if I could just get a good night’s sleep, I’d be performing a lot better.

I don’t want to blame Tilly.

But that little scamp is not sleeping through the night.

After talking to those moms at the park, I’ve been doing research.

I downloaded an app they told me about and I’ve been tracking everything Tilly does—sleeping, pooping, eating.

I’ve read about eat, wake, sleep cycles and I’m drawing up a plan.

I love planning, so this is perfect.

It makes me feel like I have a little control.

My last plan didn’t go so well, but I had no idea what I was doing.

My mood is not helped by the fact that I am painfully horny.

Since that moment when I made one of my off-color flirty jokes with Andi and she looked at me like she wanted to ride me like a bike, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that.

Riding her.

Railing her.

Doing dirty things to her.

I think about that tattoo up the smooth curve of her back.

I’ve been lone-rangering every chance I get.

It’s a wonder I don’t have a repetitive strain injury to my wrist.

But it’s not enough, dammit.

Think about sharks…

Or hockey.

Bender, our other goalie, started the two games after that and picked up wins.

The team is really building off the progress we made last year.

They’ve changed up our power play, and it’s working a lot better.

Luckily we haven’t had any injuries.

(Knock on wood.

Please.

Right now.

I mean it.

) And I’m pissed that I’m not rising to the same level.

But I’m so tired.

I park in the underground lot and head into the arena.

As I walk in, the team’s social media guy takes a photo of me.

He gets pics of all the guys in our game day fits.

It’s been almost two months since Willa left Tilly with me.

She thought she might be gone a couple of months.

I could try to find another nanny, but is it worth it if Willa will be back soon?

I need to know.

And then what happens?

I just give Tilly back to her?

It almost seems laughable that when she arrived, that’s exactly what I thought would happen.

But now?

No way in hell am I giving her back to Willa.

We’re going to share custody of her.

I sent Willa a text message earlier, but I haven’t heard back from her.

I change out of my suit and tie into shorts, a hoodie, and a ball cap, and walk out to the ice.

It’s quiet out here now, the stands empty.

I sit on the bench and close my eyes to do my visualization.

I do this every game.

I visualize the saves I’m going to make and the plays I’m going to help.

I imagine a breakaway happening in front of me.

With closed eyes, I watch the play develop, position myself in the crease with the perfect angle and depth, and then I make the save.

Christ, I could fall asleep right here.

I rub my eyes.

Goalies usually have intense pre-game routines and I’m no different.

I think it’s because of the pressure; having a routine helps ease some of the stress of being between the pipes.

But you can get carried away with having too strict of a routine.

I go to the gym and do a series of stretches.

I feel tight in my hamstrings today, so I spend a few extra minutes doing high kicks and using a foam roller.

Then I grab my ball and go out to the hall to bounce it off the concrete brick wall.

I focus on driving it to the floor and wall with one hand, catching it when it bounces back with the other.

Over and over.

Faster and faster.

I catch every single throw.

On the way back to the dressing room I stop in the players’ lounge to grab my usual pre-game snack: a cinnamon raisin bagel and a banana.

“Hey, Archie,” Benny says to me as I walk in.

Like me, he’s wearing shorts and running shoes, taping a stick.

I’m usually one of the first to arrive, and Benny comes pretty early, too.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Good. I keep meaning to ask you—Mabel wants to meet your daughter. Think we could set something up?”

“Oh. Sure. We can do that.”

I get dressed following my strict routine.

First my leggings and compression shirt.

Then my cup, pants, and socks.

I have to put on my right sock before I can even touch my left sock.

One time my left sock was on top of the right and I asked Eddy to move it for me.

This was before he knew about my superstitions and he was annoyed, so he chucked it at me.

I screamed and ducked before it hit me to keep from touching it.

Everybody else thought it was hilarious, but I was pissed.

With my chest protector and goalie pads on, I grab my gloves and again go out into the hall and do more stretching, then a series of fast hand, upper body, and head moves, imagining pucks coming at me.

I have this all planned—it’s almost like a taekwondo pattern.

Trainers and equipment guys are walking past me, in and out of the dressing room, getting ready for the game, and they just ignore me.

Everyone’s used to this.

I go back in to tape my stick.

This is another meditation time for me, where I listen to music with my earbuds, relax, and focus.

Everyone knows not to interrupt me.

Time for warm-up on the ice.

I finish dressing.

First the right skate, then the left.

Goalie skates have flatter blades that help when pushing around in the crease, and they have better protection.

I get my helmet on (with sharks in a stormy ocean custom painted on it), grab my stick, and lead the way out.

There are fans in the arena already, lots of kids lined up along the glass at our end with signs.

Music blasts through the speakers.

I skate straight to the net, shooting a couple of pucks out of my way.

The first thing I do is grab the water bottle and squirt some onto the blade of my stick.

Another superstition.

I do a sprint around our end of the ice with the guys to warm up, do more stretches, then get into net and face the shots from my teammates.

The other guys all seem pretty fired up tonight, flying around the ice, shooting the pucks hard at the net.

All their energy just makes me feel wearier.

I challenge myself by doing some jumps on the ice, as high as I can, and more hand-eye movements.

As I leave the ice, I flip a puck over the glass for a kid with a sign that says “MY FIRST STORM GAME”.

He’s ecstatic and jumps to catch it, but a man behind him grabs it in the air.

I hope that’s the kid’s dad.

I watch to see if he hands the puck to the kid…

but he doesn’t.

“Hey!” I glare at the guy.

“That puck was for him!” I point at the kid who’s now almost in tears.

“Give him the puck!”

“I caught it,” the guy says.

“I’ll come up there and get it,” I shout at him, starting toward the door.

He recoils and leans over to give the kid the puck.

“Good man.” I knock the glass and give the boy a chin lift and a smile.

He’s happy again.

“What an asshole,” I mutter as I skate off.

“Who’s an asshole?” Smitty asks.

We tromp down the tunnel.

I tell him what just happened.

“Jesus. People suck.”

Now I’m irritated.

Not a good way to start the game.

I throw myself down in front of my cubby and scowl at the team logo on the carpet.

Apparently, my glare is enough to keep everyone away.

I let my eyes go unfocused and pay attention to my breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I acknowledge the things that pass through my head—that guy was an asshole; I’m so damn tired; what am I going to do about Tilly; and why do I keep thinking about Andi?

—trying not to get involved with the thoughts.

Trying to let them go.

Let my mind be free.

Eventually I let myself be aware of the hard bench I’m sitting on, my skate blades on the floor, the chatter of guys around me.

I need my sports drink.

I’m into blueberry pomegranate right now.

“You okay?” Crusher asks me.

I start.

“Me? Yeah. Why?”

“You’re usually more animated before a game. You seem distracted.”

I shrug.

“He is distracted,” Smitty says with a smirk.

“You met his neighbor, didn’t you?”

I level an icy glare on Smitty.

“This isn’t about her.” Not totally.

“Sure,” he says.

“Oh yeah,” Crusher says.

“The neighbor is smokin’ hot.”

Yeah.

She is.

And I’m fucking desperate for sex.

But I only want it with her.

Jesus.

“Is Tilly okay?” Benny asks.

“She’s fine.” I guzzle my drink.

“Growing.”

“Good. Any word from her mom?”

“No. Last I heard, her parents aren’t doing well.”

“You got this, man.”

“Hell yeah, I do.” I give him an incredulous look, like, is there any doubt?

I’ve got this.

Back out on the ice, I do the routine I do before every period—a figure eight in the crease, then a turn into a crouch, a few fast side-to-side moves, then I drop into a squat and jump straight up to standing.

I tap my pads, right, then left, then tap each goalpost, right then left.

I turn and bump my forehead against the crossbar.

I’ve got this.

Forty minutes later, I’m forced to admit I don’t got this.

Jesus Christ on a bicycle.

I let in two soft goals in fifteen seconds, both of them on breakaways.

The players both pushed the puck in front of them, I poked at it, missed, and they scored.

And then at the end of the period, Cassidy from the Condors pissed me off by digging for the rebound when I had the fucking puck.

And I lost my shit.

“What was that about?” Coach shouts in the dressing room.

“I made the save,” I shout back.

“He wanted the rebound, but I had the puck, so he hit me. It’s my fucking crease, right? I told him to get the fuck out of there. If there’s a rebound, play the puck, otherwise don’t fucking touch me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Coach shakes his head.

Tension crackles in the room.

“And how they hell did they get two breakaways?” Coach demands.

“Hart was just out of the box, you gotta watch that, you gotta be on him. And the other one—Aaron and Noah, were you both fucking asleep on the blue line?”

Their faces tighten.

“Apparently,” I mutter.

I was pissed off about that, too.

Two breakaways in a minute!

“Hey.” Benny gives me a look.

Yeah, yeah.

He’s trying to keep things positive.

But this was not a positive period.