The puck came from the left wing, and it was a decent shot, but nothing I shouldn’t have handled easily. I was in position. My stance was solid. But something in my timing was off.
It’s the kind of mistake that can haunt me for weeks if I let it. The kind of thing that will eat at me until I prove to myself with my next save that I’m better than that.
My teammates always tell me I’m too hard on myself, but they don’t understand. I’m the goalie. The only one. Every mistake I make is magnified. Every point the other team scores is a personal failure of mine, no matter what the rest of the team did or didn’t do in the lead-up to that moment.
The gate to my neighborhood comes into view, and I punch in the code automatically, barely registering the familiar routine. My mind is still stuck on that replay loop, analyzing and re-analyzing those critical two seconds.
But as I pull into my driveway and see the lights in some of the windows, something unexpected happens.
The mental noise starts to quiet.
It’s subtle at first, just a slight easing of the tension in my shoulders that probably wouldn’t even be noticeable except for the fact that I’m actually feeling lighter and lighter with each step.
For the first time in my life I can feel something I’m not used to experiencing after a road trip.
Peace.
And not just because the house is quiet. Hell, it’s always quiet. But this place used to feel like an empty shell when I came home. I treated it as simply another stop on the endless circuit of travel, practice, games, and recovery. It’s where I eat, sleep, and maintain my body, but not much more than that.
Well, that’s how it used to feel.
With Heather and April staying here, this house feels lived in and warm for a change—it’s a home instead of just a house.
I can see it in the little bit of clutter, like April’s backpack at the foot of the stairs, or the coffee mug on the side table that’s right next to a book Heather has been reading. Even the smallstack of mail Heather left for me on the foyer table makes the whole place feel less like another fancy hotel suite and more like a family home.
Our home.
That thought should bother me. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of compartmentalizing, keeping my focus sharp on the game I love and everything I have to do to be the best. Having two other people in my space should be the ultimate disruption to my routine. I should hate it.
Instead, it’s been just the opposite. For the first time all day, I’m not thinking about that missed save. The endless loop of self-criticism that’s followed me all the way home stopped as soon as I walked through the door.
I put my gear bag away and head into the kitchen. April is sitting at the island with a textbook open in front of her. She’s wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon hockey pucks and helmets, lost in thought with an expression identical to one I’ve seen on her mother’s face a hundred times.
“Hey there,” I say, and she looks up at me with a contagious grin.
“Grant! You’re home!” She bounces a little in her seat and pushes aside her homework. “Mom and I watched your game last night on the big TV, and you were so good! That save you made in the third period, when you had to stretch across the whole goal? That was awesome!”
I’m not usually great with kids. Their rapid-fire enthusiasm and endless energy usually leave me feeling completely out of my depth. But April isn’t overwhelming. Sure, she’s enthusiastic and her energy is pretty much the opposite of my own quiet, controlled personality, but her excitement about hockey—and my games specifically—is infectious in a way I never would have expected.
And the fact that she’s such a super-fan gives us a built-in topic to talk about anytime.
“You guys have been watching? Really?” I set my keys on the counter and start to grin all over again at the thought of the two of them sitting on the couch and cheering me on from hundreds of miles away.
“Yeah, of course! Well, I missed the first game earlier this week because it was past my bedtime, but Mom told me you won. And last night’s game was so good. All those saves you made in the first period were crazy. I was telling Mom you’re the best goalie in the league, and she agreed.”
The idea that Heather and April see my work as something worth celebrating hits me hard. Knowing that my games have become something they share, something all three of us can have in common, means more than I can put into words.
I try anyway. “I’m glad you’ve both been watching. It’s good to know you’re cheering for us.”
“Are you kidding? We’re your biggest fans. I never thought I’d see my mom get into watching sports, but we’ve turned her into a hockey fan. She’s even started yelling at the TV when someone from the other team gets too close to you.”
April’s enthusiasm is so pure and genuine that I want to keep this conversation going. There’s no way my teammates would believe I’d be standing here and enjoying the fact that I’m shooting the shit with a kid, but here we are.
“I had no idea your mom was getting so into hockey. We’ll have to get her a jersey so she can start collecting signatures like you have with yours.”
“Yeah! That would be so cool. She needs to have more fun. She works hard all the time, just like you do.”
I love the way she talks about her mom, like she’s genuinely proud of her. I just wish Heather was right here next to me, so she could hear it too.
