Page 82 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
My glove dropped to my side as I skated back to position, tossing the puck to the next shooter before resetting.
"You on mute today, Callahan?" Grady called from the circle.
"Saving it for game day," I said, tone tight.
They laughed. They didn’t notice.
Coach blew the whistle and sent them into a two-on-one drill. I tracked the forwards, reading the play. They were fast, but I was faster, until I wasn’t. I slid too far on the initial push and had to snap my pad back to recover. I made the save, but it was tight. Sloppy.
"Bit jumpy," Grady muttered as he skated past.
I didn’t answer.
I wasn’t jumpy. I was bracing.
Waiting for the hit that might not come. Preparing for the loss before it happened. Playing safe. Too safe. My angles were tighter, my stance deeper, like I was trying to shrink inside my own armor.
The next shot came high and clean. I didn’t challenge it. Just let it come to me. Safe. Contained. Controlled.
But it wasn’t how I played when I was on.
I used to trust the reads. Trust the rhythm. Now I was trying to out-think everything, and I was tired.
Coach skated over. "You're getting the job done, but you're not loose. You alright?"
I gave him a nod. "Yeah. I just have to dial it in more."
Coach’s eyes narrowed, just a touch. His mouth stayed flat, unreadable. The pause was long enough to say he didn’t buy it. "Cool down after the last drill. Then hit the showers."
The guys ran a passing sequence. I tracked, reset, tracked again. Then Mac fired a ridiculous no-look backhand. It had zero business being on net.
It went in. Clean.
The bench howled.
"Big-Mac delivers again! " someone shouted. "You gonna sign that puck for him?"
I forced a smirk. Raised my glove in mock surrender and tossed the puck to Mac.
“Guess I’m just here to make you look good, Mac.”
A couple of guys laughed. Mac grinned.
Croc barked a laugh, “Look at Callahan, handing out compliments.”
Someone thumped the boards.
The laughter echoed, then thinned. Sticks scraped. Skates turned. The guys were still chirping, still loud.
I reset in the crease, eyes on the next shooter.
But my gut twisted.
Not because I missed it. Because I knew exactly why I did.
I was expecting the logical shot, the structured one. The one that made sense. I wasn’t ready for improvisation.
Just like with Claire.
