Page 14 of The Goalie in Room 1

“Mr. Benjamin? No, ma’am, you cannot come in. Wait on the porch.”

“But it’s my house!”

“Yes, ma’am. It is your house, but technically, it’s the tenant’s residence until he vacates the property.”

“But—”

“Even if he hasn’t paid the rent. Now step back and let me walk through the home.”

Thought she didn’t care about the rent, I scoffed to myself.

Swallowing against the panic of my childhood trauma beating at the box I shoved it into years ago, I stepped into the living room with my hands raised to my shoulders. I knew better than to startle a cop.

“Cash Benjamin?” the man in uniform asked as I stepped into the living area.

I nodded.

“A lot of people have been really worried about you.”

“Sorry, I’ve not been feeling well,” I said.

He stepped toward me slowly. “Do you have any weapons in the house?”

I shook my head. “Only if you count hockey skates and a goalie stick.”

He chuckled and waved his hand in a lower motion, but I stayed still. “You can lower your hands,” he said, removing his own from the butt of the gun holstered at his waist.

I dropped my hands, threading my fingers together in front of me and staying perfectly still as he looked me over. “You look different, kid, since the last time I saw you.”

“When was that?” I asked, trying to remember the last time I took the time to look in the mirror.

Ten months without more than a passing glance. Given how grungy I smelled, and the facial hair itching me to death, which could probably rival last year’s playoff beard when we lifted the Calder, I definitely looked worse now.

“I’m a fan. So…”

“Ah. Gotcha. You saw me get flattened.”

“I did, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately. Yeah. That about sums up my life,” I said, staring off over his shoulder. Mrs. P’s muttering faded in and out as she paced past the front door.

He motioned toward the kitchen barstools. “Let’s sit and talk, Cash. Sorry, can I call you Cash?”

I nodded and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Good. My name is Aaron Vale. It’s nice to meet you.” I didn’t know how to respond. “Can you tell me a little about what’s going on?”

His tone brought tears to my eyes, so I closed them, sucking in deep breaths to push the emotions away. The whole crazy, scary tale sat just inside my mouth, beating on my lips, trying to get me to talk. But…I knew if I did, I’d lose what little control I had over my emotions, and that control was the last bit of authority I had. Keeping those words in was my only choice,

“Cash…can you look at me?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

I shook my head again as desperation and despair grew exponentially. I couldn’t. Just the thought overwhelmed me. My face twisted as I maintained my hold on the avalanche of emotion threatening to break through.

“Okay, that’s okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make some educated guesses about what’s going on. You don’t have to look at me or even say anything. Just nod if I’m close and shake your head if I’m not. Sound good?”