That’s what it looks like when everything goes right. When a goalie plays the way he’s supposed to play.
When he’s not carrying around baggage that poisons everything he touches.
“Hell of a game,” Enver says as we head toward the tunnel. “I think Parker just earned himself another start.”
The words hit like a cinderblock to the chest, but I force myself to nod. “He played great.”
Because he did. I can’t even be mad about it.
The truth is, I’m happy for the kid. Not happy about losing my spot, but happy that he finally got a chance to show the world what he can do.
I silence the voice that whispers ‘fluke’ in my mind because I’m better than that.
Parker’s getting the full VIP treatment from the veteran guys on the flight home. They tell stories and make jokes…the kind of celebration that comes after your first NHL win. I try to tune it out, but it’s impossible. Every laugh, every congratulations, every mention of how well he played is another reminder of how far I’ve fallen.
My phone has buzzed constantly since the game ended. Texts from Mark, my parents, friends wanting to know what’s going on. The media’s already speculating about whether Parker’s performance means I’m losing my starting job permanently.
I stare out the window at the lights below, trying not to think about what happens next.
Maybe Enver’s gonna trade me before my value drops any lower, and I’ll end up as a backup somewhere else, or worse, out of the league.
“You good?” Cam slides into the empty seat next to me.
“Define good.” I manage a weak smile. “Parker looked solid out there.”
“Kid’s got potential. Reminds me of you when you first started - all instinct, no fear.”
Cam pulls out his phone and shows me a picture. “Look at this. Logan’s teaching Ethan to skate. The kid’s fearless.”
I look at the photo of Logan crouched on the ice next to Tessa’s eight-year-old son, both of them grinning. “He’s getting big. What is he now, second grade?”
“Yeah, and obsessed with hockey thanks to Logan spoiling him. Wants to be a goalie like his ‘Uncle Tate.’” Cam grins. “You should come by this weekend. Ethan keeps asking when you’re gonna teach him your glove save. Kid’s got decent form for an eight-year-old.”
The invitation feels natural, the way things have been since Cam and Logan got together and I started spending more time with them and Ethan because of Mark’s relationship with Tessa. Real family stuff instead of just team dinners and events.
“That’d be cool,” I say. And I mean it. “Maybe we can work on his positioning too. Kid drops too low on his butterfly.”
“Listen to you, already coaching.” Cam laughs. “Logan says you’re a natural with him. Makes sense, though. You’re good with kids.”
There’s something comfortable about being around Ethan. He doesn’t care about my save percentage or my contract situation. Just wants to learn hockey and hang out with the guys Logan used to play with.
“He’s easy to coach. He listens better than some of our rookies.”
“Hey, hey,” Steve Scott, one of the rookies, looks at me with a mock glare. “Easy, there.”
I chuckle and it feels good for once. Not forced. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, Scott.”
The plane starts its descent into Oakland, and I can see the city lights spreading out below us. Home. Where I’ll have to face my family and the media, answering questions about Parker’s performance and my own struggles.
Where I’ll have to keep pretending.
Where I’ll have to continue working with Zane every day, fighting feelings I can’t control.
Tomorrow there’s a team event at Play It Forward, a charity organization for underprivileged kids that Jack Larson got us involved with a while back. He used to date Sam Hartley, golden boy NFL player on the Oakland Saints, and Sam’s been heavily involved with some other prominent celebrity athletes. We occasionally do events there for the kids.
I need to get my head straight tonight. The event means more time with Zane. More opportunities to pretend we’re just coach and player.
The plane touches down, and reality crashes back down with it. My phone buzzes with a text from Mark as we taxi on the runway.
