The woman who’s now sitting in the stands. Watching. With her son on our bench and nowhere to escape to even if she wanted to.
Fuck.
I push off from the blue line, trying to remember how to skate in a straight line. Golda’s voice is still echoing in my head—not the careful, polite tone she used when rejecting my dinner invitations, but that soaring, powerful sound that filled the entire arena like she owned the place.
The puck drops and I immediately forget where I am.
The firefighter across from me—some guy who probably spent his morning washing trucks and doing sit-ups—wins the face-off clean. I don’t even move. Just stand there like I’ve never seen a hockey puck before.
“What the fuck, Malone?” Varga skates past, chasing the play I should be on.
Good question. What the fuck is right.
The firefighters’ captain steals the puck from Rodriguez and heads up ice. I’m supposed to backcheck. That’s literally my job. Instead, I glide in the general direction of the play while my brain replays the moment Golda opened her mouth and reminded me she’s a completely different person than I thought.
The guy scores. Top shelf. Beautiful shot.
1-0. To the guys who probably learned hockey at the local rec center.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, watching them celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup.
From the corner of my eye, I can see the youth hockey kids on our bench, including Tyson, watching with the wide-eyed attention of kids seeing their heroes play. Except their hero just let a firefighter deke him like he’s standing still.
I take the next face-off and lose it immediately. Not because the guy’s good—he’s not—but because I’m looking up at the stands where Golda is sitting with Blythe, probably wondering why the professional hockey player just forgot how to play hockey.
The puck goes behind our net. I’m supposed to retrieve it. Simple play I’ve made ten thousand times. Instead, I skate directly into the corner and somehow manage to pass the puck to their winger, who’s so surprised he almost misses it.
He doesn’t miss the shot though.
2-0.
Barrett’s voice carries across the ice: “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?”
Excellent question, Coach. I’m having an existential crisis because a hockey mom just reminded me that women are actual people with talents and depth, not just obstacles to overcome on my way to getting laid.
But that seems like too complicated an answer for right now.
The firefighter who scored skates by and pats my shoulder. “Nice pass, buddy. Didn’t know we were on the same team.”
He’s grinning like this is the best day of his life. Which it probably is, considering he just scored twice on an NHL player who’s apparently forgotten how to hockey.
I take another shift and somehow get worse. Miss a check completely—not because the guy avoided it, but because I skate past him like he’s invisible. Fall down for no reason. Pass the puck directly to our goalie, who looks as confused as I feel.
“MALONE!” Barrett screams.
The whistle blows and I skate to the bench like I’m heading to my own execution. Which, considering the look on Barrett’s face, I might be.
“What,” Barrett says through gritted teeth, “the actual fuck is happening out there?”
“I’m just?—”
“You’re just what? Having a stroke? Experiencing some kind of amnesia? Because I’ve never seen you play this badly in ten years.”
From the stands, I can hear scattered applause for the firefighters. The crowd is starting to enjoy this David and Goliath story, except David is a guy who probably spends most of his shifts playing cards and Goliath is having a complete mental breakdown.
“Sub me out, Coach,” I say quietly.
“What?”
