CHAPTER ONE
SEAN
There’s a stillness that comes over me when I’m guarding the net.
The moment I enter the blue-painted crease that makes up a goalie’s world, everything else fades away. The blaring music, shouting fans, pre-game nerves, even my screaming knees—they all vanish. Nothing exists except me, my opponent, and the puck.
Because I have one job to do: hold my post. Hold the line.
And I’ve been doing that my whole life.
There’s just one problem: I’m not in the crease right now.
I’m suited up on the bench, like I have been for the last seventeen games since the Augusta Arsenal called me up. When their starter got injured, they needed a new backup.
Enter me.
The Founder’s Forum isn’t overly cold, especially not when you’re in full pads, but I’ve been the starting goalie on every team I’ve ever played for since my peewee hockey days. I’mnot used to sitting night after night on the ice without a single minute of play time.
At least not in my professional life.
I’m plenty used to being the backup in my personal life.
You can wait. You’re the failsafe. Disaster insurance. That matters. The team still needs you, even if you’re not on the ice.
‘Course, that’s what I told myself with my ex when she was going out every night while I watched her toddler, and look how that turned out.
On the ice, Bouchard, the backup goalie-turned-starter, is shifting side to side in the crease as Kovalov, the Renegades’ star forward, approaches.
When he shoots off a quick snap shot, all Bouchard needs to do is stay square and absorb the puck into his chest and guide it to the corner.
But Bouchard chooses style over substance. His windmill glove save does the trick, but he risked a rebound.
Down the bench, the goalie coach gives a small shake of his head, but he still claps. We all do.
Bouchard likes a little flair, and with a slower opponent, it works fine. The score might be tied right now, but the Renegades are fast-paced and high-scoring, and they lead the series 3-2. If the Arsenal can’t pull it out tonight, this playoff run is over.
The team tries to match the Renegades’ pace, but it leaves us vulnerable to counterattacks.
One of our defensemen attempts a risky pass, and Kovalov picks it off, like he’s done all night. He breaks away like a blur and is quickly joined by one of their forwards, turning the play into a dangerous 2-on-1 while the rest of our team scrambles to cover.
Kovalov drives down the left side, and their forward flies toward the net. The duo is ruthless, and Bouchard gets burned by a fake and power-pushes to the other side of the net. Whenthe puck shoots toward him, Bouchard throws himself into a desperate pad stack, limbs as wide as they can go.
But he overextends, and the movement makesmyknee twinge.
He deflects the puck, but his legs buckle when he tries to rise. He crumples, waves to the bench, and the refs blow the whistle.
Trainers and the head coach rush out.
It’s chaos.
When the goalie coach waves to me, though, it all quiets. The roar of the arena hushes like someone turned the volume down. My jackrabbiting pulse slows to something stronger and steadier. And my sideline nerves disappear altogether.
I tug on my gloves, drop my helmet, and walk across the rubber mats to the ice. Otto, the goalie coach, slaps my shoulder over my pads.
“Remember: this isyourgame.”
He’s being kind.
