“Just game-prepping.” The words sound normal but this is the thing about being a goalie, my brain is always on fire whilethings happen around me. Turns out the training to stay calm works in other situations too.
He gives me a look that I’m pretty sure translates to ‘all you goalies are actual nutjobs’ and goes back to his book. I go back to staring at the blank screen of my phone and trying not to throw up. Rodriguez shifts in his sleep next to me, his head sliding off his neck pillow and landing on my shoulder. I don’t move him. Having his dead weight against my arm is weirdly grounding right now, a reminder that some things in my life are still normal and uncomplicated.
Later that night I’m lying on the bed in my hotel room staring at the ceiling. I’ve been running the same scenarios for two days, turning them over like game film, looking for the play that doesn’t end in a goal against.
I could end it. Walk away, minimize risk, protect the net. The smart move. The right move. I’ve been trained for this kind of discipline my entire life. Read the situation, make the call, commit.
Except I don’t want to. The gap between what I should do and what I want to do is so wide I could park a Zamboni in it.
I could tell Anderson. Sit him down, take whatever comes. Except he’s been here almost two decades and I’ve been here less than two years. If it comes down to him or me, it’s not going to be me. It’s never going to be me.
Or I could keep seeing her. Keep it quiet. Hope nobody finds out until... I don’t even know. Until when?
Every path costs something. I’ve run the angles six ways and every version says walk away.
I pick up my phone and FaceTime her.
Three rings. Four. I almost hang up because maybe this is the universe telling me to take the smart path, the one where I don’t risk everything, the one where I go back to being the quiet guy who keeps his head down and does his job.
She answers and she’s been crying. Her eyes are swollen, hernose is red, and she’s wearing a hoodie that’s definitely mine. She’s in bed, propped against her headboard, looking at me through the screen like she’s not sure I’m real.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” Her voice is miserable. She sounds exactly like I feel.
“I’ve been thinking about this for two days.”
“Yeah.” She sniffs. “Me too.”
“I considered everything, Mackie. All the ways this can go. Ending it, telling your dad, keeping it a secret. There’s only three real options.”
She doesn’t say anything but her chin trembles as she watches me through the screen.
“And I’m not ending this.” Even as I say what I know is the completely wrong choice on paper, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.
She makes a small sound, like someone punched the air out of her.
“Really?”
“Yeah, Mackie. I really like you. I really, really like you.”
She puts her hand over her mouth and I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying, probably both.
“I really like you too.” She’s talking through her fingers. “I’ve really liked you for an embarrassingly long time and these last two days were the worst days of my life and I cried on my cat.”
“You cried on the cat that bit the plumber?”
“Mr. Noodles was very understanding about it.”
Suddenly we’re both laughing while I lie in a hotel room in a city I’ll forget by next week and she’s in her bed wearing my hoodie and none of it matters.
“So what do we do?” she asks. “Do we tell my dad?”
“No.”
“Zach—”
“Mackie, I’m a backup with zero leverage and your father is anineteen-year veteran who the entire organization would go to war for. Which, fair. He’s earned that. But I’d like to make it through to actually becoming a starting goalie someday.”
