“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know I sound like someone’s dad.
“Nah,” Beck scoffs. “It’s motivation. He thinks I’ve improved by studying video or something, but really I’m just manifesting the beer league vibes. It’s like I tuned myself to a different channel.”
“That’s good?” I try. But I don’t really understand goalie energy, so I should probably just shut up.
“Not gonna lie, it would be so valid if you came to watch me play this weekend. The tickets are actually fire. And they serve those boujee soft pretzels with the cheese sauce that’s literally just melted Velveeta but slaps harder because it costs eleven dollars. Absolute emotional damage to your wallet, but worth it.”
I snort, because he’s right. I love that shit. “I’ll consider it.”
“Cool. Cool cool cool. No pressure. You should know that goalies perform sixteen percent better when hot bearded guys are in the crowd. It’s literally science.”
I can almost hear the smile in his voice, that nervous energy that makes him ramble. Part of me wants to shut this down. But another part—one that’s getting harder to ignore—wants to see him standing in the crease, making impossible saves. “Beck? I’ve gotta run. Charlie’s waiting for me to pick him up from a friend’s.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go be responsible and shit. I’ll catch you later.”
“Glad lunch went well.”
“Thanks for asking. You texted me. That’s almost as big a win as stopping a penalty shot with my jockstrap.”
“Goodbye, Beck.” He can probably hear me smiling.
“Goodbye, sexy.”
The call ends and I sit for a minute, grinning like a dope and tapping my phone against my knee. My instincts are telling me to keep my distance, to protect the fragile peace I’ve created for myself and Charlie. But Beck keeps finding the gaps in my armor. He makes me ask dangerous questions, like—why can’t I have this?
I pick up Charlie. And when he gets in the car, I ask him a casual question. “What would you think about checking out an Ice Cats game tomorrow night?”
Instead of answering right away, he gives me the side eye. “Wait, is this about that weird goalie who came over? The one who talked about penguins for like twenty minutes straight and then destroyed me in Reavers of the Void?”
He watches my face, and I can feel myself being read like a hockey stat sheet. Charlie’s too perceptive for his own good.
“The one who kept looking at you like you were actual goals?” he continues. “That’s why you suddenly want to go, isn’t it?”
I try to keep my expression neutral. “He gave us good seats.”
“Dad.” He gives me that look—the one he inherited from his mother that makes me feel completely transparent. “I’m not ten anymore. You like this guy, don’t you?”
I could lie, but what kind of example does that set? “Yeah. Kind of. But that doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen with him. I just... thought we could use a night out.”
Charlie grins. “So we’re going to watch your boyfriend play hockey?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But you want him to be,” he says, not a question.
I hesitate, and then shake my head. “He and I are in different places in life. It’s not a great fit.”
“You’re in different places,” he repeats slowly. Like the words are so dumb he almost can’t pronounce them. “Like, he’s in a fun place, and you’re in a place where you say no to everything and worry a lot.”
I swallow a sigh. “Look—do you want to go see the Ice Cats play, or not?”
“Duh.” He rolls his eyes. “Free hockey and watching you get all weird about your goalie? Count me in.”
“He might not even play.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m so there.”
Unfortunately, Charlie’s amusement hasn’t worn away by the time we get to the arena. He snickers as we take our seats in row D, right behind the Ice Cats bench.
