It’s a three-on-two rush, but I read it before they cross the blue line—Jake’s going to fake high, slide it low, hoping I bite. He charges forward, focus locked on my glove like it owes him money, but I clamp down hard, my blocker eating his shot like breakfast.
He frowns as he skates around.
I can’t help but laugh. “Not today, fucker.”
We continue with drills for the next thirty minutes. Like always, I slip into a state of total concentration, a moving meditation where the crease becomes my entire universe. The world fades. Even Logan’s chirping becomes background static. There’s a solitude to goaltending that exists nowhere else. I’m the last line of defense, the guy everyone loves when I’m dialed in and the guy they quietly judge when I’m not. I have to be calm in the chaos, tracking the puck like prey and calculating angles faster than conscious thought allows.
It’s relentless and unforgiving, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Nice stop,” Coach calls out. It’s not praise exactly. More like acknowledgment.
“Thanks,” I yell back, keeping my eyes on Cole.
He’s pissed that he hasn’t scored yet and will use any shift in my focus to his advantage. Though that’s not the only reason I focus on him. I do it because I can’t look at Coach Henderson. If I do, I’ll seeher. Gigi’s standing along the plexiglass doing who knows what. She doesn’t hold a position in the organization—and trust me, her grandpa’s tried—so she has no reason to be at a practice. Yet here she is, laughing and smiling like she owns the place, which, annoyingly, she does. Well, her family, at least.
Hockey has always been my respite. It’s the one place I don’t have to wear a mask. No pretense, no carefully chosen words. Just me and the ice. But her presence changes that.
I’m dripping sweat under my gear by the time Coach ends practice an hour later. While he hasn’t outright confirmed he’s retiring at the end of the season, the writing is on the wall, and I have no doubt that he’s putting us through extra strenuous practices so he can leave on the high of another Stanley Cup win.
The locker room fills with the familiar hum of towels hitting benches and chatter, the air scented with sweat and menthol rubbing cream. When the reporters file in, they go to their usual suspects. The guys who will happily answer their questions and joke around, giving them clickbait for their articles. I’m not one of those guys. I’m our starting goalie, so I can’t avoid them, but I keep it brief and to the point, and the journalists know they won’t get much else unless it’s after a game. I prefer to pretend I’m invisible after practice and today is no exception. I’m feet from the door, so close to making it out of the building unbothered, when Gigi appears out of nowhere, blocking my exit.
Apparently, she thinks my message to “stay away from me” really meant “corner me for a chat.”
“Hey, do you have a quick second?” she asks with a smile. It’s the one I used to mistake for affection. Now I know it’s practiced charm.
I value my job too much to flip her off in response, so I keep it professional and crack my jaw like a boxer before a fight. “What’s up?”
She rests her manicured hand on my forearm, and I jerk back like her touch will burn me. Dramatic? Maybe, but it’s my natural response.
She ignores the reaction, eyeing my nearby teammates. “In private?”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I stalk a few feet away from the guys. When they watch me, expressions pained, I give them a brief nod. I can survive a conversation on my own.Hopefully.
Once they’re out of earshot, Gigi steps in close, her voice quiet. “I don’t want things to be weird between us.”
My hands clench by my sides, my jaw tightening further. “You really think cornering me after practice is the right way to go about not making things weird?”
“It’s not like you’ve given me any other chance to talk.”
Fair point, though I’d argue she lost the right to my time when she fucked my teammate behind my back. I let the silence hang for a moment intentionally, then say, “Things aren’t weird.”
She matches my bullshit look with one of her own. “Yes, they are. And your friends are making it worse. I tried saying hi to Logan earlier, and he pretended he had a sore throat and couldn’t answer.”
By some miracle, I keep a straight face. “Maybe he’s coming down with a virus.”
“He couldn’t have developed a cold in the five seconds between his conversation with your athletic trainer and my greeting.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I can’t defend Logan’s actions. It’s obvious he’s punishing Gigi on my behalf, not that I’ve ever asked him to. Sighing, I lower my head and massage the back of my neck. “I’ll talk to him.”
The corner of her mouth kicks up like I just confessed that I’m still in love with her. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I don’t think that’ll solve what’s going on between us.”
“There’s nothing going on between us. There is no us.” The words taste bitter and I hate how childish I sound, but she brings out the worst in me. “There hasn’t been for a while now.”
“I know, but if I’m back in town and going to be around?—”
“That’s the thing, Gigi. I don’t know why you’re here, and quite frankly, I don’t care.” I stare at her, clear-eyed but callous. “There’s nothing to say or catch up on. I’ll keep things civil because I don’t want to jeopardize my position on the team. Logan will, too. But don’t expect me to pretend we have any type of relationship outside of our connections to the Bobcats. We don’t.”
“That’s why I’m trying to fix things. I?—”
