This is what he doesn’t do. This is why he avoids distractions. He doesn’t let his mind wander. He doesn’t let people in. Not on game day. Not ever, if he can help it.
She’s just noise. Complicated, pretty noise.
He slams his mask back down, and taps his post once, then twice. Focus. Back in.
But the puck drops again, and he’s still not clean.
Still not sharp.
The Storm thread a pass through center ice, and Number 11 rips one from the top of the circle.
Glove side, again.
And this time, he misses entirely.
The puck punches the back of the net with a loud, echoing snap, and the arena groans as the Storm celebrate, arms raised. Number 11 mimes choking at him as he skates past.
Tie game. 3–3.
Jesse skates over and taps his stick against Garrett’s pads. Tells him it was a good shot. That no one could’ve stopped it. Carter offers him a fist bump. Garrett doesn’t take it.
He’s furious.
The self-loathing settles in fast and hard, burning down histhroat and into his chest. He grips his stick, smashing it into one post so hard he feels the zing in his teeth.
He saw it coming. He should’ve had it, but was distracted.
And he knows exactly why.
Three-on-three overtime. Fast, furious, and exactly where a goalie earns his paycheck.
Garrett plans to earn it.
He hunches low in the crease, knees bent, eyes tracking the puck as the Storm weave through the neutral zone. Three skaters on three skaters means more space, more speed, and more mistakes waiting to happen. There’s no hiding in overtime.
His focus is steady now, finally. No more drifting thoughts. No static in his skull.
That third-period goal is a memory already. Filed and locked. It happened. He hated it. Moving on.
The only thing that still grates is his twig.
He chipped it. Like a goddamn rookie. Slammed it into the post after the tying goal and chipped the blade enough for the trainers to notice.
“You’re switching,” they said.
He didn’t argue, but he wanted to.
He liked that stick. Four games, three wins. It wasn’t his best, but it had rhythm. He liked the way it felt in his glove. He trusted it.
This new one feels...fine.
But he doesn’t want fine.
The Storm take a quick shot—low, blocker side—and Garrett knocks it away clean. No rebound. Another comes from the slot, a one-timer, fast and angry, and he eats it in the chest, hugging the puck until the whistle blows.
Focus is back. He can feel it in the timing of his slides. The burnin his thighs is good. The sweat dripping under his mask is good. He’s in it now. Fully.
They win the faceoff, and Jesse swings wide, controlling the puck, buying time. The Storm chase hard, but Tilly’s on the ice too, and the defenseman is a goddamn wall when he wants to be.
