I doubt he’d do that, but you never know. Life has a way of squeezing lemon juice into your eyes when you least expect it.
CHAPTER 6
MATT
Walking into the locker room after warm-ups, I’m still in disbelief, thinking of what just happened.
When I got to my room, needing a mental getaway from the chaos in the locker room, I didn’t expect to find a different form crackling in the air. I didn’t expect to find someone already in there—in the dark, mind you. But even more, I didn’t expect said person to be Shay Rooney.
She’s a goddamn badass goalie, who really got dealt the worst cards possible. I remember finding out about her accident moments after it happened. I couldn’t believe it. The guys and I were over at Alec Kostelecky’s house. We tuned in the game the moment we caught wind of it.
I’ll never forget the red that painted the ice and the way everyone held their breath while she was wheeled out on a stretcher. It was terrifying. Truly.
God, it was all I saw on social media for nearly an entire month afterward. Articles, podcasts, everyone from the pro league to minors to non-hockey groups … they were all talking about it. They called her a miracle, praising that she had faced death and won. But from the broken soul I just comforted, I think death may still be hanging on to her after all this time, ashadowed cloak draped over her shoulders. I can’t imagine what she went through—and is still going through.
If hockey were ripped away from me like that, I wouldn’t know how to function or breathe. I know it’s been just as much a part of her life as it has mine. I know how lost I’d be, and I’m sure it’s the same for her.
I still can’t believe we recruited her for a goalie coach. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep her, especially after what she went through on her first day, but I sure hope she stays. We’d be lucky to have her.
“Ready?” Jeremy Huang, my tandem goalie, asks me as I plop down on the bench next to him.
Nodding sharply, I try to push Shay from my mind. It’s game time, which means nothing else matters.
Not until the third period runs out and I strip out of my uniform. Until then, I’m a robot for the Nighthawks, keeping everything locked inside—about my family, about my newfound concern for Shay. All of it.
“Let’s roll!” Becky, one of the team coordinators, shouts, telling me it’s time to line up for the starting roll call.
“Yes, ma’am!” JD salutes playfully, cracking a joke, like he always does.
Becky rolls her eyes, then says something into her headpiece before glancing down at the stack of papers secured on her clipboard.
The guys cheer and pump themselves up, but I’m silent, waiting for the cue to go, which comes only a second later. They murmur to one another, reminding me how much of a different game we play. While they rely on teamwork and lifting one another up, I play an isolated game. My direct teammates are my posts and my gear.
I can’t rely on my defensemen solely to do my job, no matter how big of a difference they make. I’m on an island all by myself.
“Let’s do this,” I whisper, strolling down the tunnel.
The announcer’s voice booms from the speakers introducing the Nighthawks to the arena, and the starting five step to the side, letting the nonstarters take the ice and skate around a short lap before he announces the starters.
“Center for the Nighthawks …” He draws it out. “Number sixteen, Alec Kostelecky.”
Alec shoots onto the ice, quickly finding his spot on the red line. A large camera is a few feet in front of him, capturing him in ultra definition. Cam Costello is announced next, one of our forwards, followed by the other forward, Brett Burns. Next is the defensive pair, Reed Larinski and Jensen Donnelley. And then finally, me.
I skate out onto the ice, calm and collected, my mind already in the net, ready for puck drop. This is my home, my favorite place to be. Good day. Bad day. Doesn’t matter. On the ice, I’m whole.
Clenching my hand in my glove, I rock back and forth on my skates, restless and ready to get into my crease. But I’m stuck on this red line until the anthems are done, both the US and Canada, as we're playing a Canadian team.
Finally, when the music stops and the military colors leave the ice, I can skate over to my home, tucking myself into my net like a turtle before I emerge and start carving up the ice, creating traction against the smooth surface. It might not seem like much, but all the friction we can get makes a difference.
I exhale fast and heavy, emptying my lungs of as much air as possible before breathing in deep. Game time, and I’m ready. We’re going to win this and snuff the chance of making it to the playoffs from the Eagles.
The ref and other players set up around center ice, the lights illuminating the arena. My skin hums with excitement, the echoing cheers vibrating through my body.
This is the best goddamn fan base in the world.
I run the player stats I’ve memorized over and over in my mind, dissociating just enough to take the edge of nerves off, but not too much so I can still stay focused.
“Twenty-one. Defenseman. Weak passer. Great deflector. Has eleven goals this entire season. He’s due for another,” I whisper under my breath as I stand and flex my legs while the group moves down the ice, breaking into the other zone.
