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I shudder, remembering grubby hands on me and lips that were all wrong.
A run. Sure.
Because the last one went so well.
I flick on my signal, navigate to the off-ramp.
Because, really, I’ve only got one safe space to go.
It’s likely why my subconscious sent me in this direction even before I came out of my panic.
It’s familiar.
It’s comfortable.
It’s…all I’ve got left.
I maneuver through the signals, navigate over to the practice rink, and use my keycard to access the hallway that leads to the locker room less than ten minutes later.
My equipment is here and not at the Gold Mine (the arena where the Gold play our home games), thankfully. Set out and ready for practice later today.
I always have a backup set here, but they’re not the ones I wear for our games because my leg pads get worn in so quickly that they are the one piece of equipment that goes back and forth between the practice facility and the arena.
And get changed out every two months or so.
Way more often than my lucky glove that’s been with me for the entire season.
Never let it be said that hockey players aren’t superstitious.
I strip out of my clothes, pull on my gear, and am tying on my pads when I sense movement in the open door.
“I knew you’d be here,” Frankie says.
Our long-time goaltending coach has been a staple in my life for as long as I’ve been playing in the league, and the sight of him is almost enough for my eyes to tear up.
Luckily, I’m good at holding that shit in as I look up at him and smile. “How’d you know?”
He grins. “That you’d want to get beat up with some pucks shot by an old man?”
“Yes,” I say with real amusement this time. “Exactly that.”
He winks. “Because I know you.” He tilts his head in the direction of the ice. “I’ll go get those pucks.”
My heart squeezes and I nod. “Thanks, Frankie.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, pushing off the doorframe and stepping back into the hall. “The wife is more than happy to get me out of the house. Plus”—he flexes his biceps, wags his brows—“she likes the guns it gives me.”
I snort, mostly because if there’s anything similar about all hockey goalies (besides being more than a little weird for willingly standing in front of a goal and getting hard-ass disks of rubber shot at us), it’s that we’re all on the leaner side. Tall and lean.
And without huge biceps.
Though technically I’m short when compared to some of the behemoths manning the league’s other nets—even though I’m tall for a woman. Biology is a fact I can’t compete with and something I’ve had to learn to compensate for.
Hence the extra practice.
Hence the ability to forget about my life by having to focus on those hockey pucks.
I exhale, finish with the last tie, check the buckles, and then I put on my chest protector, my jersey, my helmet. I snag my glove and blocker, my stick from the rack just outside the door.
