“I’m listening to music.”
He stretches out, taking up way more space than necessary. “I’ve known you for two years, Z. I know what your spiral face looks like. You get real still and your jaw does this clenching thing like you’re trying to crack your own teeth.”
I unclench my jaw. I hadn’t realized I was doing it.
“Here’s my take,” he says, and I can tell he’s been sitting on this since the buzzer. “Being a goalie is bullshit. I mean that as a compliment. The rest of us can fuck up a pass or miss a shot and by next period nobody remembers. You let in one soft goal and it’s a headline. You let in a breakaway and people act like you personally ruined their lives.” He kicks my foot with his. “That’s not fair, and it doesn’t change the fact that you had a bad game. Both of those things are true at the same time.”
“Is this supposed to be helping?”
“Kind of, yeah. The point is—bad game. It happened. It’s over. Game 7’s at home, clean slate, you get another crack at it.”
“And if I blow that one too?”
“Then we lose, we go play golf, go tubing, we come back next year and try again.” He says it like it’s simple, like the stakes are manageable, like my entire career isn’t sitting on what happens in two days. “But you won’t blow it. You’re too much of a stubborn asshole to blow it. You’re going to white-knuckle your way through sixty minutes out of pure spite, and it’s going to be ugly, and we’re going to win anyway. Get some sleep,” Rodriguez says, standing and stretching. “And stop staring at Anderson, I promise if you thought Luca losing it was bad, you don’t want to see Jack blow a gasket. He’s crazy. Fucking blink or stare at Brody, something.”
He walks back to his seat and I pull my headphones on and turn toward the window and try to think about nothing, which has never once worked in my entire life but I keep attempting it like somehow the result will change.
I check my phone and see a string of texts from Mackie, sent during the third period.
Mackie
that wasn’t your fault
the defense hung you out to dry
I love you
I’m at your apartment
I made dinner
well I made dinner and then I ate most of it but there’s still some left for you
I’m gonna try to stay awake but no promises
just come here okay?
don’t go anywhere else
just come home
I read the last text three times. Just come home. Like my apartment is home now because she’s in it. Like the definition of the word rearranged itself around her without asking my permission.
Me
Just landed. On my way.
Mackie
good
I’m in your bed
hurry
I pocket my phone and grab my bag and I’m one of the first off the plane, walking fast enough that Rodriguez whistles from somewhere behind me. I ignore him because I can’t explain where I’m going or why I need to get there this badly without blowing everything apart.
The apartment isdark when I let myself in. She’s curled up on my side of the bed, like she always does when I’m not here. There’s an open bag of sour gummy worms on the nightstand. Her phone’s still in her hand, screen dark. She made dinner, ate most of it, and fell asleep waiting for me.
