The real test comes five minutes later, when the opposing team’s star forward breaks in alone. Beck stays patient, doesn’t bite on the fake, and somehow gets his pad on a shot that looked destined for the top corner.
“Holy shit!” Charlie exclaims.
“Language,” I say automatically, but I’m thinking the same thing.
Beck builds from there, making one clean save after another. The Ice Cats seem energized by his performance, and they claw back with two more goals of their own.
Just one goal from victory heading into the third period, there’s a rowdy tension in the arena. Charlie is practically vibrating with excitement beside me. Or maybe he’s just shivering.
“He’s locked in now,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s known Beck his whole life instead of for a few hours.
“Here, put your coat on, at least until the puck drops again,” I insist. And I do the same.
I forget to take it off again, because the third period quickly becomes the Becker James Show. He stops a power-play shot with a lightning-quick save that has the crowd roaring. When a scrum breaks out in front of his net, he calmly stands his ground, somehow finding and dumping a puck that nobody else can see.
With five minutes left, Charlie grabs my arm. “Come on, Dad, you have to believe!”
And in that moment, I realize I do. I believe in Beck—not just as a goalie, but as the weird, wonderful guy who’s been chipping away at my emotional fortress. The guy who sent me rambling texts from Canada and played video games with my son. The guy whose blue eyes light up when he sees me.
With two minutes left, the Ice Cats score to take the lead 4-3. The celebration is short-lived, though, because the other team pulls their goalie and mounts a furious attack.
For the final ninety seconds, I barely breathe. Beck makes three saves in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last. A point shot with twenty seconds left hits him in the mask, knocking it sideways, but he somehow keeps the puck out of the net.
The final horn sounds, and the Ice Cats players mob Beck in his crease. He’s just made 47 saves on 50 shots, stealing a win that seemed impossible after the first period.
“Your boyfriend’s pretty good,” Charlie says, nudging me.
I don’t even bother correcting him this time. As Beck skates to center ice for his first star selection, he looks directly at our section and taps his chest twice before pointing right at us.
And damn it if my heart doesn’t skip a beat.
Sixteen
You’ve Been Weirder
Beck
During the postgame rituals, I keep sneaking looks at my phone, in between celebrating, and showering, and my brief interview by a sports journalist who asks me about my game. “Looked like a shaky start, Mr. James. Any reason?”
“The start was rough,” I agree. “But goalies are like thermostats, not light switches. We don’t just turn on and off. Sometimes you need to adjust the settings until everything feels right. I got there eventually.”
It’s not like I’d admit that the presence of a hot, bearded bartender in row D had me feeling shaken. Hell, a hockey player never admits to nerves. No matter who causes them.
“That wasn’t my worst quote, right?” I ask Rigsy as we head to the parking lot.
“Nah, man. You’ve been weirder.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He shrugs. “Can I ride with you to the bar? I want to drink. A lot.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
As Rigsy and I are tossing our stuff into the back of my Jeep, the phone finally lights up with Forest’s name, and I stand there in the frigid parking lot to read it and reply.
Forest
Wow, man. You were on fire tonight.
