Page 41 of O Goalie Night
After about ten minutes of our pair's ice dancing routine, he slows to a stop. "You're ready to try it on your own," he says, releasing my hands and moving to stand beside me instead.
“Are you sure?”
"I'll be right here if you need me."
For a minute, I don’t do anything but stand still and take up space. Foster remains at my side, as promised, not rushing me.
You can do this, Beth.
I take a tentative step, then another. The steps are so tiny, I’m not even sure if you can call them steps at all, but at least I’m moving forward.
My movements become smoother and to my surprise, I manage to stay upright, gliding slowly but steadily across the ice. I don’t look at Foster out of fear of losing my balance, but I feel him beside me like a reassuring shadow.
I make my way from one side of the rink to the other completely unassisted. When I reach the boards, I place a hand on the glass to steady myself and finally look up to find his smile even bigger than my own.
Before I can say anything, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing and spins us around on the ice while I cling to him, giggling uncontrollably.
"I knew you could do it," he murmurs against my hair and I think this might be one of the best moments of my life. Setting me down, he beams at me with pride. “You didn’t fall once.”
Looking up at him, I’m not so sure.
Against all reason and self-preservation, I think I might be falling very hard.
CHAPTER 18
FOSTER
“Hang a picture on my boy cause he’s a fucking wall!” Ben shouts, slapping my pads as he circles my net.
I stand in the crease, my eyes scanning the ice, taking in every detail. The roar of the crowd is a distant hum, my focus entirely on the game unfolding before me. The Habs have been relentless tonight, but I'm in the zone. Unbeatable.
I’m not normally this sure of myself, but since my skate with Beth this morning I’ve been riding a high like never before. Listening to her as she opened up to me and then watching her face her fears was inspiring. I can’t remember the last time I felt that fucking good.
And it hasn’t worn off. I walked into the arena feeling like I could take on Goliath and for the first two thirds of this game, that’s exactly how I’ve been playing.
We’re up by two goals eight minutes into the third period. When the puck drops the action is immediate. Players crash into each other, sticks clashing, the sounds echoing in the rink. I track the puck as it moves swiftlybetween skaters. The defence is holding strong, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they break through.
A forward from the other team intercepts a pass at the far blueline, streaking down the ice, the puck dancing on his stick. I crouch lower, my eyes locked onto him. He dekes left, then right, trying to throw me off. But I stay with him, reading his movements, anticipating his shot.
Not today, asshole.
He shoots. I react instinctively, dropping into a butterfly stance, my pads meeting the ice. The puck slams into my right pad, and I quickly cover it with my glove before he can attempt a rebound. The whistle blows, and I rise, preparing for the faceoff to my right as the crowd cheers. I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction, but there’s no time to dwell.
The game isn’t over yet.
Another faceoff, this time to my left. The Habs control the puck and set up in our zone. I stay sharp, my eyes darting between the puck carrier and the left wing waiting at the sideboard. A defenseman winds up for a slapshot from the point. I prepare myself, tracking the puck as it rockets toward me. I catch it cleanly in my glove, feeling the satisfying thud. I hold it high for a second, letting everyone know I’ve got it under control.
The game continues, a blur of fast-paced action. My teammates battle hard and I do my part, stopping shot after shot. There’s a breakaway, a two-on-one, and a couple of scrambles in front of the net, but I stay alert, turning everything away.
With the clock ticking down, the tension rises. I know they’re going to throw everything they have at us. They pull their goalie for an extra skater and the pressuremounts. The puck is everywhere, players crashing the net, sticks and skates tangled.
A shot from the point is deflected, changing direction at the last second. I push off my right skate, sliding across the crease, my glove hand flashing out. I feel the puck hit my glove, and I clamp down on it, freezing play. The roar of approval from the crowd is deafening, but I stay focused, not ready to celebrate yet.
The final seconds tick away, and with one last desperate attempt, the opposing team sends a flurry of shots my way. I block and deflect, my reflexes sharp, my mind clear. The buzzer sounds, and the game is over. We’ve won.
My teammates rush over, slapping my helmet, congratulating me. I pull off my mask, my breath coming in heavy puffs, sweat dripping down my face. The crowd is on their feet, cheering, and I allow myself a moment to soak it all in.
I am a fucking wall.
