Page 88 of Snowballed

“I don’t understand women,” I say.

He grunts. “Can’t help you there.”

“I feel like it’s not really me she’s mad at. But I’m the easiest target.”

“Maybe she’ll calm down, and you guys will get back together.”

“Maybe.” Zoe has a temper, lashes out, and then regrets it. It feels like there’s so much she’s not telling me—she’s a closed book. If she talked more, maybe I could reach her better. I can’t help worrying about her. She has friends, yet she keeps her real problems locked up.

When I really examine our personal dynamics, I could have done more. I know Zoe has insecurities, yet I pretended it wasn’t a big deal. I avoid talking about relationships and feelings, yet that’s exactly what she needed to hear. Maybe if I showed Zoe how important she is to me, then we wouldn’t be where we are right now: broken up and living in separate places.

On Friday, we’ve got a home game against Northeastern.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how big this game is,” Coach Keller says beforehand. “Winner takes sole possession of first place in Hockey East.” We’ve had a good season so far, but beating Northeastern tonight feels like the first step in our journey to the Frozen Four. There’s a bit of nervousness among my teammates. Nothing like pressure to make us all grip our sticks a little tighter.

After the warm-up, I can tell my focus is not what it should be. Worry about Zoe is at the back of my mind. She was in such bad shape when I left. Even though she told me to leave, maybe I should have stayed. How can I find out if she’s okay without actually talking to her? Too bad I can’t message Rocky.

I go over to Wags. “Do you have Rocky’s number?”

“I wish. Why?”

“I want to find out if Zoe’s okay,” I say.

“Coach’ll kill you if he finds you on your phone.” This is true. After Murph got caught messaging his girlfriend between periods, our head coach laid down the law: all phones away a half hour before and during games.

Still, I need to clear my head to be at my best tonight. I sneak my phone into the can and message Helen.

Is Zoe okay tonight?

Then I wait an agonizingly long time for a reply. Coach G calls into the bathroom, “Goodwin. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Coming right out,” I say.

I wash my hands even though all I’ve done is text. I run back to the dressing room and grab my helmet and gloves. Before I stow my phone, I steal one last look. Nothing.

The first two periods are a close, tight-checking contest. We’re fighting for every inch out there. The Huskies manage to get two goals past Briggs, one of them happening on my shift when a miscommunication with Meysy meant that a forward was left unchecked in front of the net.

“C’mon, guys. We’re better than this,” J.D. urges us during the break before the third. He’s the kind of captain who leads by example rather than making big speeches.

Then Coach Garfunkle steps up. He says it’s a mental thing, and we’re all tryingtoohard. He starts delivering one of his patented Zen koans on overcoming desire.

“Not desiring is the way to achieve our desires. Otherwise the goal we are chasing recedes further each time we move,” he says.

Vonne shakes his head. “What we desire is three goals in the Huskies’ net.” But he doesn’t say it loud enough for the coach to hear.

Not that I don’t appreciate Zen philosophy, but Coach G’s command that we all “close our eyes and find our centers” is a chance for me to check my phone.

There are two messages from Helen:

Why wouldn’t she be? She’s playing tonight and I’m not.

WAIT! Did you guys break up???

I stash my phone. Zoe’s fine, and I need to focus on beating Northeastern.

The normally chill Meysy is looking nervous. Hell, nobody wants to be the scapegoat in an important game. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Just win the next shift,” I say. It’s trite advice, but for me it’s the best way to focus when I’m anxious. I can’t control whether we win or lose, all I can do is play my hardest for the next 60 seconds.

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