Dalton finished, wiped gel with a towel.“Stim for fifteen.You know the drill.”
I lay back, electrodes buzzing.I focused on the minor electric pulses instead of the unseen messages waiting on my phone.
A notification buzzed—different tone.
Austen:When are you going to be in the room?I’m in class till noon.
Practical, efficient.Also weirdly grounding.I thumbed a reply with my free hand.
Luke:Film ends at 12:30.Then weight training.I’ll run by and say hi after that.
I tossed the phone aside before I could overthink why typing that made my chest unclench.
Film review at 11:30 sharp.We crowded the small theater—rows of fold-down seats that smelled like old popcorn and hockey tape.Harper stood beside the screen, laser pointer in hand.
Every freeze-frame that featured me came with commentary.
“See your torso angle?”she said, highlighting my clinched stance on a two-on-one.“If you stay compact there, rebound slides into the slot.Open up, and you direct it into the pads.Simple physics.”
I nodded, scribbling notes.Glove tight, chest square, edges loaded.Ryan drew a cartoon goalie on his page, labeling me “Wall-E.”Childish and perfect.
Harper finished with a clip from last year’s Caribou game—our ex-starter beaten five-hole.“They disguise shot angles.Read the hands, not the eyes.”
She clicked the projector off.Lights stung.“Rosters posting outside my office at fourteen-hundred,” she said.“Starters marked in red.Practice tomorrow at six.Weights in one hour.Questions?”
Silence.
“Good.Hydrate.”
The room emptied.Ryan elbowed me.“Starters in red.Must be your color.”
“We’ll see.”
“You act chill, but your gear bag’s already vibrating.”
I tried to laugh.It snagged halfway up my throat.“Tell that to my shoulder.”
He slapped my good side.“Weights, then lunch.Come on.”
“Need to check one thing first.”I pointed at the hallway that led past Harper’s office.“Meet you in the gym.”
“Don’t keep me from leg day glory,” he said over his shoulder.
Coach’s door was cracked.The roster sat taped outside—white sheet, names typed, positions.I scanned.
GOALTENDERS Carter – starter (red) Decker – backup
Red text, bold.My name lit like a warning flare.
Provisional starter or not, it was real enough to print.
I exhaled.The breath steamed the roster for half a second.I touched the paper—brushed it, like proof—and walked away before anyone saw.
Weights at sixteen-hundred hurt worse than any drill.Harper watched from the balcony while our strength coach barked sets.Ryan cursed through goblet squats; I counted reps by multiples of five, math trick to keep rhythm.Shoulders held.Core held.
Afterward, I showered fast, pulled on sweats, and jogged across campus.The sun barely cleared the library roof—shadows stretched long.
Austen sat at his desk, laptop open, earbuds in.He looked up as I shouldered my gearless backpack onto my desk.
