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Being a goalie is to stand alone.

He’s known that since the first time he strapped on the pads and took his spot between the pipes.

It’s a different world, watching the puck sail from stick to stick from the safety of the crease.

Sure, there are defenders on the ice, an entire team working together to keep thingsin the other team’s zone, but when the moment arrives, when the crack of a slap shot splits the air, there’s only him.

The goalie. He plays his own game every time he steps onto the ice.

It’s a dance, all hockey is, but especially in goal.

Reading your opponent’s body, waiting for them to drop their shoulder, shift their weight, move their stick a fraction of a fraction of an inch.

Don’t take your eyes off the puck. Don’t flinch at the shot.

Don’t miss the telltale movement. Know when to move and challenge the forwards.

Know where your defenders are at all times, so you can drop the puck back behind the net without stopping play.

Don’t get caught cross-checking the guy standing too close for comfort and blocking your view.

He’s been perfecting his skills, honing his craft since he was a kid back in Reykjavik.

The Rocky Mountain Rush is on another level today, passes connecting as if my magic, but the Arctic is keeping them at bay.

Barely. These are the games he loves. The adrenaline surging through his veins; the sweat dripping down his forehead until he shakes it out of his eyes, the ache in his wrists from the battery of shots he’s caught and blocked.

He’ll have to tape them tomorrow. Sure, there’s beauty in an easy win, but it’s not fulfilling.

It’s not the same as pushing himself to the very limits his body can take just to bring home the extra point for his team. His family.

The crack of a pass rings through his ears.

His heart is thundering, the world slowing to a crawl as he zeroes in on the Rush’s center forward.

The player is making a run toward the goal.

He takes note of the defenders trying to pivot and overtake the breakaway.

They’re too far away. Every breath he takes echoes in his ears.

In, out.

In.

Out.

He keeps his body angled toward the puck, glove and blocker ready, chest up. This is what he’s good at. He knows this player too, knows how he shifts his hips to aim before a shot.They’ve done this dance before.

Except… except the forward doesn’t have control, not really. The puck is more than a stick-length in front of him. The Rocky Mountain player puts on a burst of speed, trying to catch up, but he’s too far away. The puck is loose.

This is the moment, the chance. He likes to be adventurous in goal. Aggressive. He prefers to play the ice, not sit back in the crease and wait. He likes to control the encounter and Rocky Mountain just handed him the opening.

There.

He skates out to the face-off circle, falling to his knees in the typical butterfly as he drops his glove over the vulcanized rubber disk. His grin is triumphant, even as he raises his head to get the ref’s attention. He has the puck. Blow the whistle. Stop the play.

A large blur of white and purple crashes into him.

The rink goes ass over elbow, and everything goes dark as his helmet rips free, bouncing across the ice. His head slams back, pain fracturing through his skull.

Moments fracture. The lights in the arena seem to blink out, then back on.

His ears are still ringing. He can hear the scuffle, his teammates no doubt taking out the player who charged him.

Goalies are off-limits. Everyone knows that.

Finally, whistles blow, but the sounds do not stop.

The roar of the crowd is a nice bass layer, even muffled as if he’s floating underwater.

Holding his breath at the bottom of a pool the way his baby sister does when she plays mermaids.

“Watch this,” she yells at him, pushing copper bangs out of her face before diving under the surface and performing the same lopsided handstand she’s done fifty times already. He always smiles and claps, just as impressed as he was the first time.

He shifts his pads, taking stock of the situation, and pain knifes through his hip, slipping down the inner face of his thigh.

He wants to claw the pads off his legs. He wants to lie still and never move again.

He wants to throw up. He might just do that last one.

He moves his head, thinking that’ll be a better plan, and bites down hard on his mouth guard as the hot poker stabs him again.

His hip, definitely. Probably the abductor or the flexor, given the angle of the hit. Maybe his neck, too. Whiplash or… he shuts his eyes, trying to silence the thoughts along with the pain.

Is this it? He’s not as young as he once was.

At thirty, he thought he’d have several more years ahead of him.

He’s at the top of his game right now, his save average is a 0.

9182. He’s pretty sure he’s tied with the Buffalo net-minder to lead the league—the blonde one from Sweden—but that’s the nature of the game.

Injury doesn’t care how good he is between the pipes.

He’s not getting back in goal tonight. That much is clear, given he can’t move without wanting to bawl.

He’ll be out for the rest of the season.

Even if his teammates get a win out of tonight’s match-up, even if they take home the cup, hip injuries take time.

He may not leave the injured reserve list before the end of the season.

If ever.

He swallows hard, mind racing. Is this the end? Even if he recovers,will he always be slower? Have less range of motion? Be more prone to injury?

Helvítis fokking fok.

What will he tell his Amma? His sister? Will they be able to make ends meet without his NHL salary?

Is he even suited for anything else? He’s been playing hockey, focusing on hockey, since he was a kid.

He only has a half-hearted, high school equivalency and a few community college courses he pursued on his own time.

Studies weren’t important when he was only living in the states to play.

Homeschool lessons happened between tournaments, between coaching sessions, between game play.

In hindsight, he regrets not doing more.

It’s one reason he’s glad Katrín isback home, focusing on school and being a regular kid.

His eyes are still closed, the blood rushing through his ears, as soft fingers brush his cheek.

He wants to turn into the touch, but he thinks it would be a bad idea.

His stomach is still considering revolt.

The voice above him sounds muffled, fuzzy in his ears, and he tries to block out the background noise to focus on what it’s saying.

“If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was say so.”

How is she able to brush his hair back? Where’s his helmet?

He must have lost it in the collision, proof it was a hard hit.

He’s seen helmets go flying before. It’s not a normal occurrence, but it happens.

He’ll need to make sure the shell is un-damaged.

Kat designed the gyrfalcon he had painted on the helmet.

He’ll never hear the end of it if she has to start over.

He tries to open his eyes, but the lights are too bright and everything is hazy. Did he hit his head on the ice? Is that why everything sounds so… off?

“Hey there, big guy. Come here often?”

His chest tightens automatically as his laugh tries to get out. He knows that voice. Suddenly the pain seems to ease. Just the tiniest bit.

“Greg’s on his way,” she says, her hands slipping over his shoulder pads and chest protector with a practiced touch. She’s taking stock of his injuries. Doing her job with calm efficiency as she waits for the senior trainer. “I was just faster over the boards.”

Pink. All he can see are the sparkling frames of her pink glasses. He scans her eyes, searching for fear. Worry. Sadness. Her eyes are honey brown. Sweet. Crinkled at the corners as she smiles down at him. Her hands reach the top of his hockey pants.

“It’s my-my…” The harder he tries to push the word out, the more stuck he feels.

She doesn’t shush him or rush him.

“My h-h-h-hip.”

“Thought so,” she says, her hands leaving his body, “but you’re going to be okay.”

She doesn’t know that. She can’t. No one knows for sure. They don’t even know what’s wrong yet, but hips are tricky bastards.

“I’ve got you, Ragnar. We’re going to make it better.”

A flurry of movement and then the head trainer, Greg, is there, and she’s moving away to give the team space to work. He closes his eyes again, focusing on the questions asked with calm authority. He’s grateful they stick with yes/no answers.

It isn’t until they have him off the ice and crammed into the metal tube of the MRI, taking images of his hip flexor, that he realizes she used his first name and didn’t just call him ólaffson.