“...Porta potties.”
“Being inside a porta potty when it tips over.” I watch the horror dawn on his face and keep going. “You’re in there. Pants around your ankles. No escape. The door is now the ceiling or possibly the floor, and everything that was in the tank is now?—”
“Please stop.”
“On you. In your hair. And you can’t get out because the door opens the wrong way now. You’re just lying there marinating in?—”
“MACKIE.” He puts a hand over my mouth, which, given recent events in my parents’ basement, sends a hot flush through me. “I think you might be the scariest person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” I mumble through his hand. “Your turn.”
He thinks about it, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Shots I can track the whole way but my body doesn’t get there in time.”
“I meant like a real phobia. Spiders. Heights.”
“That IS a real phobia. I see the puck leave the stick. I read itperfectly. I know exactly where it’s going, and my glove is late by an inch. That’s the worst feeling in the world.”
“Zach, that’s not a phobia, that’s a job hazard.”
“It keeps me up at night. That’s a phobia.”
Of course that’s his answer. Of course his deepest fear isn’t snakes or the dark—it’s seeing the exact right thing to do and not getting there fast enough. I file that away because it explains about ninety percent of how he operates in every other area of his life.
“Fine. Traumatizing. Love it. Next round.” I rub my hands together. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth.”
“What do you want the most out of life? The one thing you’ve never said out loud.”
He stares at his hands. I can see him deciding, turning it over, checking it from every angle the way he checks everything before he commits. “To win the Stanley Cup,” he says. “As the starting goalie. Not a backup who dressed for a few games and gets his name on it because he was in the right place at the right time.” He pauses, and his voice goes quieter. “I want to be the reason we win. I want to be the wall. I’ve never said that to anyone because it sounds insane.”
“It doesn’t sound insane.” I squeeze his hand. “I can see it someday. Game Seven. Tied score. You in net.”
He nods once, like he doesn’t actually believe it but wants to. “Your turn.”
“Rinkside reporter,” I say immediately, because I’ve been wanting to say it out loud for months. “But not for the NHL.”
He tilts his head and waits.
“The PWHL. I want to be the person who covers the women’s game.” Once I start, I can’t stop. The words tumble out the way they do when I’ve been thinking about something for a long time and finally have someone to say it to. “Because thewomen’s game is different, Zach. Nobody’s there for the contract drama or the endorsement deals. They play because they love it. The people who show up love it. There’s this energy in the building that’s just purer than anything I’ve ever felt in any arena, and I’ve been in NHL arenas my entire life.”
He watches me without interrupting. The quiet, undivided attention makes my throat tight.
“My dad’s been talking to the media department about getting me connected. Pulling strings, calling in favors, asking if anyone at the network has room for an intern.” I pick at the edge of the pillowcase. “Which is great. It’s amazing that he’s doing that. But it also means he thinks I want to cover the NHL. Because why wouldn’t I, right? I’m Jack Anderson’s daughter. The path is right there.”
“But you don’t want the NHL.”
“I grew up watching my dad play a thousand games, and the NHL never once made me want to pick up a pen. The women’s game did. When I tell him that—” I stop and take a deep breath before continuing. “He’s going to hear it as his daughter saying the thing he built his whole life around isn’t good enough for her. I’m going to have to say, ‘actually, Dad, I want to cover a league you’ve probably never watched’.”
“That’s not what you’re saying.”
“I know. But he’s going to hear it that way. That conversation scares me almost as much as the other one.” I laugh, but it’s thin. “I’m really collecting difficult conversations I need to have with my father.”
Zach’s quiet for a second. “The women’s game is cleaner. I’ve always thought that. The hockey is different, but it’s not less.”
I open my mouth and close it. I was prepared to defend this, and he’s just sitting there nodding like I told him the sky is blue. Like it’s obvious.
“I don’t think you need your dad to open doors for you. I thinkyou could probably kick them down yourself. You’re going to be incredible at this.”
