Page 5 of Goal Line
“Helene’s at the hospital with her now,” he tells me when I glance up at him. I know he means that to ease my mind, but it has the exact opposite effect.
I still don’t know if she’s okay, and now I’m panicked that her mother may have found out that she’s been keeping a secret that could wreck her chances of achieving the one thing her parents have always prioritized: an Olympic medal.
Giving him a curt nod, I stand. With my skates on, I’m a full head taller than him, and it’s weird to look down at this man I’ve spent my whole life looking up to.
When I was a kid, Charlie Wilcott was the hockey player I aspired to be. He gave me some private lessons to get me started and helped me find my first hockey team. When I was eleven, he was the one who suggested I give being a goalie a chance. When I was getting recruited to play in college, he guided me. He even introduced me to my agent, Carson Kaplan.
My dad may own the team, but Charlie’s been my hockey mentor my whole life. Playing for him never felt like itwould be in the cards until I was traded mid-season and wound up back in my hometown.
“I need you to stop worrying about Eva,” he says.
“Am I that obvious?” I mumble as I reach down to pick up my blocker.
“I know how protective you are of her,” he says, his own version ofyes. “But there’s nothing you can do for her from here. So get your head back in the game.”
“Understood,” I say, nerves still thrumming, as he turns to head toward the locker room door.
“This vacant look you’ve had on your face all game is because of Wilcott’s daughter?” my goalie coach, Evan Knight, asks. With everything that’s on the line in this game, I understand the judgmental tone.
I clear my throat. “I haven’t had a vacant look on my face all game.”
“Yeah, you have. As your coach, let me give you a piece of advice: no girl is worth beingthisdistracted over. You’re a professional, act like one.”
“I haven’t been distracted,” I grumble, but we both know it’s bullshit.
He’s stood next to me for the last two periods, pointing out everything I should notice about St. Louis’s offense, Colt’s reactions to each play, and the strengths and weaknesses of our defense—who honestly aren’t playing as well as they could be. And all I’ve been able to manage in response are grunts of acknowledgement. I should be focused, because even though I’m the backup goalie tonight, there’s always the chance I could have to play.
My coaches are both right: I need to get my head back inthis game. The problem is, I’ve always put Eva’s well-being before my own. It’s just never been an issue before.
So when I take my spot on the bench and watch the third period start, I’m determined to refocus. But I can’t quiet the part of my mind that’s picturing Eva in her hospital room and Helene finding out that she’s pregnant. After everything Eva’s parents have sacrificed for her and her skating career, I can’t even predict what Helene’s reaction would be, but I know it wouldn’t be good.
Now, it’s like I’m watching that scene—her mother’s judgment and displeasure, and Eva shriveling in her mother’s presence, like she always does—playing out side by side with the game I’m watching right in front of me.
And maybe I’m too focused on the imaginary scene in my head, because I don’t even notice Colt fall to the ice until the crowd collectively gasps. I glance up at the Jumbotron, hoping for a replay, but right now, the camera is zooming in on Colt, lying on the ice, his face twisted in pain behind his goalie mask.
“Get ready,” Coach Knight barks at me. “You may be going in.”
My stomach drops as I grab my helmet, prepared to throw it on if needed. I glance back up at the screen in time to watch the replay of Colt butterflying down to block a shot, getting faked out as a St. Louis player moves left and sets up his shot. Realizing his mistake, Colt plants his skate and dives in the opposite direction, somehow managing a glove save. But then, he doesn’t get up.
Adrenaline pumping, I glance back at the ice as our trainers and team doctor surround him, then over to the bench, whereCoach Wilcott has his gaze focused on Colt before it shifts to me. He gives me a nod, so I slip on my helmet, then my glove, and slide my blocker over my right hand so I can grab my stick.
Fuck. Focus . . . What was Evan saying about St. Louis’s left winger?
Colt struggles to his feet, his arms over the shoulders of two of our trainers as they help him off the ice. Evan swings open the door so I can step out, and I skate over to the crease, where the referee asks if I want a warm up.
I should say yes, but I tell him I’m good, even while our team captain, Ronan McCabe, skates up and asks if I’m sure. “I’m fine,” I say, confident that the surest way for me to get my head in the game is for the game to actually start up.
We’re up 3-2, and there are fewer than ten minutes left.
All you have to do, I tell myself while watching McCabe pass to Drew Jenkins as they make their way toward St. Louis’s goal,is hold them off for the rest of the period. How many shots can they possibly take in that time?
It’s a question I shouldn’t have risked asking myself, because apparently there’s no limit. It’s like our team has forgotten how to play offense, so it feels like the puck is always near our goal. We’ve also clearly forgotten how to play defense, if the number of shots on me is any indication.
I stop the first two, barely, but the third shot gets past me. My teammates tell me to shake it off and say they’re going to step it up. All we need is one more goal and we can retake the lead.
St. Louis wins the face-off, and the puck is headed back toward me. The left winger Coach Knight mentioned earlier is moving with such fancy footwork he looks like a goddamn figure skater.God, I hope Eva is okay.
I don’t even notice the shot until it’s sailing toward me, and I raise my blocker, hoping to bat it off, but it sails right between my arm and my body.
