“Because I was freaking out.” I pulled away from him and reached for the wall to find my cane as a touchstone, though I didn’t pick it up. “This is all so fucked-up, and I was barely dealing.”
“No, yeah. Sorry. I get it.” Tucker paused for a long beat. “How the fuck is Alexio Zeki involved?”
I grimaced. “The shop owner is his brother. And he, apparently, loves my dad and thinks I’m committing, like, elder abuse or some shit.”
Tucker growled. “Does he know what a shitstain your dad was growing up?”
“No, and he doesn’t need to,” I said quickly. “I don’t want him in my fucking business. He’s not going to convince me with his hot-as-fuck voice to give him details either.”
Tucker was quiet for another beat. “Ooookay. Well. Um.” He cleared his throat.
“Was that a weird thing to say?” I asked.
He huffed a sigh. “No. Whatever. It’s fine. Fuck Alexio. Let’s talk soon and we can come up with some kind of plan.”
I felt a sudden punch of relief. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Tucker touched my shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s go get this fucking circus over with. Go play nice with your big Russian goalie, and then we’ll deal with real life.”
Things still felt like shit, but his order was definitely something I could follow.
“Am good like this?”
I reached out and felt over his front. “Yeah, that should be fine.”
“Then I just what? Listening for puck? Will hear over the skating and other players?”
“It takes concentration,” I told him, because it did. The puck was loud, but the players were louder. And unlike other blind sports, hockey didn’t limit screaming from the crowd, which made hockey what it was as a sport.
So yeah, the rattling sometimes didn’t hit me until a puck was flying at my face. But I loved it.
I skated next to the net and gripped the pole, hunkering down, prepared to help if I needed. Alexio had been so fucking convinced this event was meant to humiliate the sighted players, which was ridiculous. I mean, yeah, okay, I was kind of hoping he’d fall on his ass several times and would have difficulty sitting over the next few days, but I didn’t want it to be that bad.
These “experience blindness for ten minutes” social media clown shows always pissed me the fuck off. All they did was make the pity worse. And the fear. People would laugh on camera and joke, but inwardly, it would solidify the absolute, abject terror they felt about living a life without sight.
It was why half the guys we met who were losing their vision were shitting their pants. And why it took some of our players years to adjust and adapt.
But Vanya wasn’t one of those people. He seemed overly eager, like an excited kitten with the zoomies. Tucker had given him one set of the blackout goggles other goalies with light perception used during the game.
“All goalies are on even footing,” he’d explained as Vanya was changing into his pads. “So they all play without any sight.”
“You wearing these?” Vanya had asked me.
I laughed. “Dude, no. I don’t have eyes.”
He sucked in a breath. “But you have eyes. I see them right now.”
I flicked one with my nail and felt him recoil before he leaned in. I could smell mint on his breath. “Prosthetic,” I said.
“They look so real. Great party trick! You should scare kids on Halloween.”
“Uh…”
Then he’d grabbed the goggles and shoved them on his face. “How I’m looking? Sexy guy, huh? Like in sci-fi show?”
I wanted to hate him because I wanted to hate this whole thing, but I couldn’t. I showed him how I was guided onto the ice—usually by holding Tiago’s stick, which he thought was a hilarious euphemism—and then I got him to the crease with only a few falls.
“Is okay,” he insisted with a grunt right before he was settled in the crease. “I get it. You give me time. I’ll be best blind goalie in league.”
