“Easy there, cannon,” I say, tossing the puck back to center. “Save some ice for the rest of us.”
A few guys chuckle, and I feel myself relaxing by degrees. This is just hockey. I know how to do this.
They start cycling through more complex drills. Two-on-ones, breakaways, screens in front. My glove starts to sing. My positioning feels crisp, and I stop more shots than I let in.
The last shooter is Kapski, and when he comes in alone and tries to go five-hole, I snap my pads together like a bear trap.
I get a weighty nod from Coach. Then he claps his hands. “Nice warmup! Let’s scrimmage!”
My heart hammers as they set up for a face-off, like I’ve watched them do on TV.
Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up.
The puck drops and chaos erupts. Bodies crash into the corners. Sticks clash. I follow it all like my life depends on it. The goalie’s job isn’t just saving pucks. I’ve got a view they don’t have, and I’m supposed to share the wisdom.
“Heads up, Stoney!” I call as an opposing forward sneaks behind him. “Ghost on your six!”
Stoney spins and picks up the man just in time, breaking up the play.
“Back door!” I bark when I spot Wheeler drifting toward the weak side.
The defenseman adjusts, closing off the passing lane.
Then suddenly there’s a loose puck sliding toward the slot where Dougherty is lurking like a vulture.
Time slows. He winds up for a one-timer. I slide across my crease, reading his eyes, his shoulders, the angle of his blade. When he releases, I’m already there. The puck smacks into my blocker and wings safely into the corner.
“Fucker,” Dougherty says, shaking his head.
“That’s Mister Fucker to you,” I mutter, and he snorts as he skates off.
I’m in it now. I’ve got this. I face shot after shot, each save building my confidence. A sprawling pad save on Wheeler. A glove robbery on some defenseman’s point shot. When Newgate tries to stuff a rebound past me, I slide post-to-post and swallow it up.
My inner voice finally shuts up. This is what I was born to do.
With five minutes left, they get a two-on-one. I stay patient, forcing the pass, and when it comes, I throw myself across to stop it. The sound of the puck hitting my pad echoes through the rink like a gunshot.
“Holy shit!” someone yells from the bench.
My thoughts exactly.
When Coach Powers blows his whistle, ending the scrimmage, I can’t believe it—nothing went in.
I have an honest-to-God shutout.
Holy shit.
As I skate to the bench, guys are tapping their sticks on the ice—the hockey equivalent of applause.
Stoney skates over and bumps my mask with his glove. “Dude, nice showing.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. But inside, I’m dancing.
And my next thought is, I can’t wait to tell Forest about this.
Two hours later I’m climbing back into my Jeep after lunch with Stoney and a couple of his teammates, and I’m still feeling high on life.
I grab my phone out of the cupholder and look to see who’s messaged me. I’m hoping to see Forest’s name, but instead, I see my roommate’s.
