Page 1 of Her Goal
1
HUDSON
Life hasa funny way of humbling me at the worst possible moments—like right now, with nothing but a towel around my waist after a shower. And by “funny,” I mean about as humorous as those stone-faced guards outside Buckingham Palace. You know, the ones who don’t crack a smile even when tourists make fools of themselves trying to get a reaction?
When I still played for the Rangers, we had a game up in Ottawa against the Outlaws. A few of my teammates dressed up in bearskin hats and red uniforms, mimicking the Ceremonial Guard—but instead of carrying rifles, hockey sticks were locked and loaded.
Was I one of the guys in costume? No comment.
I’ve traveled overseas, lived all over the country, and am now back in the one place I said I’d never return …
Cobbiton, Nebraska, which recently rebranded itself as Hockey Town, USA.
I’ll be the judge of that.
I took an overnight flight and was bleary-eyed when I arrived at my new house on Golden Bantam Court. I hired a company to do the bulk of the unpacking so I could jump right into preseason training.
If there’s agotchato be had, it’s on anyone who teased me about the shoddy duplex I grew up in with my single mom and twin brother because my new house with its chef’s kitchen, high ceilings, and surround sound audio system is as nice as they come.
The Roboveitcheks were all smart and got out of town the same day as graduation. Actually, my mother was gone the week Hunter and I both turned eighteen, but that’s a memory that stays inside the Nothing Box. I never thought I’d live here again and on the nice side of town!
In the haze of my early morning arrival, I left my suitcase downstairs. I find it in the front room by the couch. Pausing, I peer out the wide front window overlooking the manicured lawn. The maples and oak trees have started turning from green to the vibrant shades of autumn.
A slow sigh escapes and then my breath catches in my throat.
Near a birch, I spot movement. It’s early and the sunrise barely scrapes the gray sky so it could be a raccoon, a stray cat, or a neighborhood dog out doing its morning business.
However, if I’m not mistaken, a figure streaks by clutching something to their chest. Not yet familiar with the layout of the house, yet trying to track the trespasser, I hurry from window to window, some of which have the curtains drawn and others are open to the yard.
It’s too soon for a crazed fan to find out where I live. Unlike some of the guys I know, I rarely get mobbed in person, but online is a different story. I’ve had marriage proposals, women offering to have my children if only to preserve my features, and once was offered to do a wife swap.
Don’t have one of those. Not really in the market and swapping is a solid pass, anyway.
From outside, I don’t think the person spotted me, but if this is how new neighbors are welcomed, I’m calling the cops.
Something in the house makes ashushingnoise, or perhaps it’s the residual airplane eardrum hum from my flight out of Texas. Planting my pointer finger next to my ear, I give it a jiggle.
Peering into the backyard, I look for the prowler but don’t see anyone.
I probably need to get some shut-eye. I fly all the time, so jetlag isn’t usually an issue. However, sleep doesn’t come until I’m stationary, preferably in a bed. Listening carefully, I continue to hear thatshushingsound.
Then comes atick tick ticknoise, followed by a softthump.
If I inadvertently bought a haunted house, I quit. Not my career. No, I’m hanging onto it by a threadbare piece of hockey tape. I mean home ownership. This is my third place and it would be just my luck to have a Cobbiton ghost try to haunt me out of town.
“It’s not like I want to be here anyway,” I mutter.
Gripping the towel firmly around my waist, as I near the door that leads to the attached garage, I hear the distinct sound of running water. I check the faucets and it’s not the shower. Looking outside from the upstairs bathroom window, I realize it’s the irrigation system sprinklers. Relief washes through me until I hear anotherthump. Could be a plumbing issue like air in the pipes.
Or a ghost.
I freeze in place and my heart stops, too. Listening once more, I try to locate where the strangethumpsare coming from. If I can’t, I’ll call a landscaper or plumber in a couple of hours. I don’t want to have a flood or a faulty system. Not this early in the game.
Having browsed the front yard like a lord over his estate, I peer into the backyard with a large deck and hot tub. I’m looking forward to that, especially after games on the cold Nebraska nights that I remember well enough to already dread.
Once again, I detect movement in the yard. I’ll have to review the security system. I recall the realtor mentioning motion detection lights and several cameras, but I haven’t synced the app with my phone yet.
It’s yet another item on my to-do list, which includes resuscitating my career. I expect that I’ll only be here for one season before Coach Badaszek realizes that I’m an okay goalie, but not a great goalie. I don’t want to experience hockey exile. However, I’m more than fine with saying good riddance to Cobbiton.
