Page 53 of Penalty Shot

The problem is, Soren isn’t using his size. He’s even bigger than me: six-five and built like a boulder. If he just eased toward the shooter an inch or so, he’d cut the angle. The shooter wouldn’t be able to see the net beyond Soren’s wide shoulder pads.

Not that anyone is asking me, the guy who lost the first two games.

The second intermission is déjà vu by now. We wobble to the locker room, trailing in the score sheet like we’ve been throughout the series.

All the scolding from Coach Zach is nothing compared to the palpable frustration coming in waves from each sweaty player.

The weight of the game and the responsibility for the team bears down on Dex, who is staring at the floor.

Sergei is so pissed, he punched a wall.

Lance can’t even sit down to take a break. He’s jumpy and aggravated.

Everyone else displays a unique form of self-blame, mumbling in Russian or German or whatever his mother tongue is.

Others stare into space, reliving botched plays over and over again.

Or is that just me?

The feeling of the puck grazing the top of my glove is a shadow I can’t shake. At the end of the night, after losing our third gameand finding ourselves at the brink of elimination, that shadow looms larger.

“Hey! You’re calling me!” I squeal, surprised to see Randall’s name on my phone screen. “I thought your phone was locked in a vault. Aren’t you in the middle of a series?”

A shallow laugh trickles from the speaker, the kind that isn’t humorous at all.

“Phone abstinence didn’t work this time, so I figure fuck it.”

“What do you mean it didn’t work?”

I shut my laptop screen and close my strained eyes, realizing how nice it is to sit in the dark and hear a familiar voice.

I had been copyediting the marketing materials to be distributed to local media this week, leading up to the show. Since I’m not a dead white male playwright—Shakespeare has it so good—it appears my second job is to sell the damn tickets. My input and presence, in the form of interviews and post-show talks, is required to promoteBlood Will Have Blood.

“Bombed the first two games and got benched by a third string goalie from the fucking minors. We’re about to get swept,” he declares as a matter of unfortunate fact, like reporting bad weather in Columbus.

I’m quiet for a while, absorbing the bitterness of his summary.

Randall’s voice is barely recognizable, defeat muffling the playfulness that comes naturally.

I’m worried about the grimness of his prediction, but I don’t turn away from it. It’s so unusual, his melancholy feels like a secret he’s revealing only to me.

“What do you mean you bombed the first two games?”

“Didn’t make the saves I should have made. If Jeremy wasaround…”

“The injured goalie.”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t have allowed three goals in two games.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he snaps. Then, more gently, “Sorry, Elise. Maybe it’s a bad idea to call when I’m like this. I…I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The admission tugs at my chest. Of course I’m here as a voice, a shoulder, a friend.

What can I really offer, after all? I know nothing about sports. Yet something is bothering me.

“You said about to get swept? Future. Youhaven’tlost the series.”