Page 56 of Puck Sweat Love

By midday, my patience is wearing dangerously thin. During a scrimmage, I’m positioned in net for the “away” team, another not-so-subtle indicator of where I stand in the hierarchy. Garcia, naturally, defends for the home team.

But I lock in, stopping everything that comes my way. The veterans on my side, Stone included, are putting serious heat on Garcia, and he’s struggling. He’s flashy, sure, but his positioning is sloppy, and his rebound control is practically nonexistent.

I, on the other hand, am playing like I have something to prove.

Because I do.

“Shit, Tank,” one of the defensemen mutters after I make a particularly difficult save. “You’re a brick wall today.”

I should feel good about that, but all I can focus on is the way Lauder and his assistants keep huddling together, their eyes on Garcia despite his mediocre performance.

During a break, I overhear Hartley talking to one of the assistant coaches near the bench.

“Yeah, the kid’s got real star potential,” he says, the direction of his gaze leaving no doubt that he’s talking about Gracia. “Fan-friendly. Marketable. The kind of personality the team needs going forward.”

The assistant nods, his brow furrowed. “And LiBassi?”

Hartley lowers his voice, but not enough. “Solid backup. For now.”

For now…

What the fuck does that mean? I’ve left it all on the ice this morning. Anyone with eyes should be able to see that I’m starting goalie material. At the very least, I should have confirmed that I belong on the team for the foreseeable future, not just “for now.”

But they aren’t evaluating me with a clear gaze. They’re seeing me through the lens of their own prejudice and my past mistakes,

Mistakes Garcia has made damn sure to keep at the top of their minds…

The whistle blows, calling us back to the drill, and I push away from the boards with more force than necessary. The unfairness of it all is like acid in my gut. I’ve worked my ass off to get clean, to rebuild my skills, toearnanother chance, but these guys have written me off before I’ve even had a fair shot.

As we line up for the next drill, Garcia skates past me with his typical smug expression, like he knows the starting position is already in the bag. And maybe he does. Maybe he and Hartley are justthatchummy.

I stare straight ahead, refusing to engage.

But inside, I’m a volcano on the verge of eruption.

The drill starts, and I’m paired against Garcia in a goalie challenge. Shooters alternate between us and whoever allows the first goal loses. Simple enough.

The first few shots are routine—wrist shots from the slot that we both handle easily. Then they move to one-timers from the circle, increasing the difficulty.

Still, neither of us breaks.

Garcia starts to showboat, making windmill glove saves and dropping into butterfly splits for shots that could have been stopped with far less drama. The rookies eat it up, hollering and banging their sticks after each save.

I remain steady, efficient, relying on positioning and experience rather than flash. The veterans cheer me on like one of their own, a fact I’m grateful for, but Lauder’s expression remains unreadable.

Then Stone steps up for his shot on me. From our years of playing together in Seattle, I’m guessing he’ll go for a high glove, his signature move.

Except he doesn’t.

At the last second, he shifts his weight and fires low blocker side, a dirty fake that would have fooled most goalies. But I’m in the fucking zone today. I track the puck and kick out my right pad, deflecting it harmlessly to the corner.

Stone grins as he skates past. “Still can’t get one past you, asshole. One of these days…” He shakes a mock-angry fist in the air as he glides away, and I grin.

It’s a small victory, but it feels good.

Next up is Donovan, one of the Badgers top scorers, taking his shot on Garcia. He winds up for a slapper from the dot, and Garcia drops into his butterfly early, anticipating low. Donovan sees it and adjusts, roofing the puck over Garcia’s shoulder into the top corner.

“Fuck!” Garcia slams his stick against the post as the team erupts in a mixture of cheers and jeers.

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