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FORD

I get the text from Willa just as I’m going on the ice for a morning skate before we leave for Columbus.

I don’t have time to reply, so I chuck my phone in my locker.

Is she going to put off coming back for Tilly again?

I don’t know if that’s what I want or what I don’t want.

What I do know is that I’m kind of pissed off at her.

But I put that aside as I jump onto the ice and focus on Pete, our goalie coach.

He has me and Bender together at one end of the ice.

Pete’s in the net demonstrating what he wants us to do.

“Now we’re going east–west on our feet. Then back in, down to the goal line, and right out again… and east–west, this time at the top of the paint.”

I nod, taking in everything he says.

I respect him as a goalie coach and he’s been a great mentor to me, even talking to Victor about his training plans for me.

I go into the net and go through the motions he described.

I’m quick on picking up things like that, maybe because of all the taekwondo patterns I’ve learned.

Then I watch Bender do the same, helping him.

Then Pete starts shooting pucks at us, so the patterns become real as we try to stop the frozen rubber from getting past us.

I’m sweaty and pleasantly tired by the end of practice and Bender and I joke around as we skate off.

“You must have taped your ankles up good today, Bender,” I say.

“They weren’t even collapsing.” His nickname comes from his name, Bendik, but it’s also a derogatory name for someone who thinks they can skate but can’t.

“Fuck you,” he says with a laugh.

“I’ve heard better chirps from a dead bird.”

“Haha.”

We’re leaving shortly for the airport for a five-day road trip to Columbus, St.

Louis, and Charlotte.

This is the longest I’ve left Tilly (and Andi) and I’m feeling out of sorts about it.

Lieve is working out fine and I totally trust Andi, so I don’t know why I’m bothered.

I’ll need to stay focused on the trip.

I’m starting tonight, but I don’t know how many of the games I’ll get to play.

I hope it’s all three.

Things are going better lately, but I still feel a need to prove myself.

We board the bus in business casual clothes for the half hour or so ride to the airport in Teterboro.

I grab a seat next to Smitty who’s engrossed in his phone.

Oh, shit.

That reminds me…

I pull out my own phone to look at Willa’s message.

I stare at it.

She’s back and she wants to talk.

What does that mean?

She wants Tilly back?

Well, obviously she does.

Shit.

My gut tightens into a rock.

I knew this was coming.

I have to deal with it.

I text her back with numb fingers.

FORD

Just leaving on a road trip.

I’ll be back Sunday morning.

I can come see you then.

She agrees to that.

I’m antsy.

I wish I could go see her right now and get this done.

How the hell am I going to play hockey over the next five days with this hanging over my head?

I glance over at Smitty’s phone and see an image of a woman, so I lean closer.

“Oh, man… is that Nikki Sullivan?”

He jumps.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“I thought you were over her. What about Bristol?”

“It was just a casual thing.”

“That’s hot.” The singer is posed in a skimpy silver-sequined outfit.

He closes Instagram and scowls.

“So you’re still obsessed with Nikki. Still stalking her.”

“I’m not stalking her.”

I laugh.

“Yeah, you are. Online.”

He growls.

“You’re really hung up on her.”

“No, I’m not.” He opens a game app and starts playing.

Okay.

Fine.

For the rest of the bus ride I contemplate the things I’ll say to Willa and what she might say to me.

This is supposed to prepare me and ease my anxiety but instead only reinforces how much this is beyond my control.

And I fucking hate that.

When we get to the hotel in Columbus, I sit on the bed in my room and send another text, this time to Andi.

FORD

I heard from Willa.

She’s back.

ANDI

Oh.

FORD

I’ll get this all sorted when I’m home.

Finally.

ANDI

Okay.

The little dots jump around as she types, then stop.

Then start again, then stop.

And I don’t hear from her again.

The other night, when we decorated the tree, it felt so normal and comfortable and…

like we were a family.

And then she left, and went home to sleep in her own bed.

She probably knows that Willa won’t be gone much longer.

She’s probably eager to get back to her normal life.

I don’t blame her.

I exhale sharply.

It’s time to go to the arena.

This is a test of my self-discipline.

Discipline is the bridge between goals and success .

I do all my usual routines.

I’ve got this.

But on the ice, when play is up at the other end, instead of thinking about sharks, I’m thinking about Willa.

And Tilly.

And Andi.

My chest is tight and I have a faint headache.

After a whistle, I squeeze water over my head and give it a shake to try to regain focus.

It’s so fucking frustrating that I don’t know what’s going on.

I feel like my life is out of my control, and that’s one of my worst fears.

Or…

is it?

It used to be.

But now…

when I think of losing Tilly and Andi, I think that might have changed.

Control and rules are great.

I love ’em.

But Tilly is teaching me that I’m not always going to have control of her, even at this age.

And I might be okay with that.

Or learning to be okay with that.

I always told myself I don’t need anyone else.

People pushed me around as a kid.

Fine.

Who needs them?

Even playing hockey—yeah, it’s a team sport, but I’m on my own here in the net.

Except when I think of my life going back to the way it was before—which, honestly, was all I wanted for a while after Tilly arrived—it makes me want to vomit.

It seems bleak.

Empty.

Lonely.

Maybe…

now my biggest fear is losing them.

With the score tied one all, I’m suddenly aware of a two-on-one happening in front of me, with two Columbus players coming in on net and only Crusher trying to stop them.

Hakim is desperately trying to catch up.

Columbus winger Heinonen is a right-handed shooter and he’s coming up on the left.

He’s dangerous.

Crusher comes in on the strong side post, trying to stop him from cutting to the middle.

He’s got his stick out to take away the pass to the other winger, which I would have a hard time stopping.

But it’s also harder for that winger to shoot from his backhand.

I take all this in in seconds.

I know the decision Crusher made on how to play this, but there’s risk and reward to any decision.

And I’m still trying to figure out how this happened.

Heinonen passes it.

I slide to my left.

But in a lightning-fast move, the winger passes it back to Heinonen.

I move again but Crusher has not only failed to stop the pass, he’s failed to stop Heinonen from cutting to the middle and shooting.

I throw out my glove hand and spread my legs, but not fast enough.

And he scores.

“Fuck!” I’m spreadeagled on the ice while Columbus celebrates around me.

I get up and hurl my stick across the ice.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s not Crusher’s fault he was left all alone.

My job is to stop the puck.

And I didn’t do it.

And it was a tied fucking game!

Jesus!

I’m fucking pissed.

And not just at myself.

One of their other players, Ouellette, was pulling shit earlier, in a scrum in front of my net he fucking chopped my stick out of my hands.

I got it back and the play moved away but he can’t fucking do that.

Deep breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It doesn’t matter what just happened, I have to be ready for the next time.

Not fucking head tripping about what my life will be like without Tilly and Andi.

I’m a professional.

I have to do this.

I fish the puck out of the net and shoot it toward the linesman.

Then I go for a bit of a skate, centering myself.

I’ve got this.

I still have that tightness in my chest.

And my head throbs.

I’ve got this.

Moments later, Columbus controls the puck.

Ouellette is right in front of me, screening me, waiting for the puck.

I’m still pissed about that goal, not to mention the other ten times Ouellette slashed me and the refs ignored it, and I whack the back of his legs with my stick.

Bad idea.

Baaaad idea.

Ouellette turns around and crosschecks me.

“What the fuck, asshole!”

“Fuck you!” I bellow.

We both throw some wild punches and I take him to the ice, going down on top of him.

Mayhem ensues.

Every player and every ref on the ice gather around us.

I want to punch Ouellette, but he’s down on the ice and I just can’t do it.

Fuck me.

A fight breaks out between Crusher and a Columbus player, and the refs immediately step in.

Other guys are paired up, shoving and dancing and chirping.

Eventually, one of the refs drags me off Ouellette.

I get to my feet.

My mask is off.

Sweat drips into my eyes.

I grab my water bottle and squirt it in my face, breathing heavily.

Dilly skates up and taps my pad with his stick.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I set my jaw.

“He’s been slashing you all night.”

“Yep.”

I have time to compose myself as the refs gather to confer on penalties.

I end up with a slashing penalty and Ouellette gets two for crosschecking.

I have to be better.

I need to be a machine.

I can’t let my emotions get the best of me.

I see every puck clearly.

I am on angle, square, with perfect depth.

My hands and feet move with speed and accuracy .

We’re down by one goal.

Coach pulls me near the end of the game for the extra attacker.

I hustle to the bench and watch the guys control the play in the O zone.

I lean over the boards.

“Come on, guys! Let’s fucking go!”

Passing, passing, passing, waiting for a lane.

And then a Columbus player intercepts a pass and he’s off toward our empty net.

Our guys make desperate attempts to stop him, but he shoots the puck and scores into the empty net.

I drop my head forward.

Shiiiiit.

I drop onto the bench, sweaty and grouchy.

Yeah, I’m definitely in Coach’s bad books as we return to the dressing room.

I’m in my own bad books, for Chrissake.