I walk up the airstairs with him and step onto the jet, following him down the walkway. The coaches and staff are sitting up front, the players toward the back. My eyes are glued to Andy’s back, doing everything possible not to glance toward the players.
But then I feel eyes on me, and my reaction happens before I can stop it. My eyes flick up, immediately locking with Matt’s, as if they knew exactly where to go, drawn to his like a magnet.
We haven’t spoken since he found me having a panic attack. He could make this super uncomfortable and awkward. Since that encounter, he could’ve decided that I was the biggest weirdo he’d ever met and he never wanted to talk to me again.
But instead, the corners of his lips tip up, the comforting and calming blues of his eyes softening, like a hug. And with the slightest movement, he nods at me.
For some reason, it makes my heart leap in my chest, and I beam with pride. My spine straightens, and I hold my head higher.
I know I don’t need anyone’s opinion to give me this much strength and reassurance, but it still makes a difference nonetheless. He's someone who knows how hard I’ve worked, and who has seen me in a moment of weakness. He believes in me, and, fuck, that counts for something.
Andy and I find our seats—very comfortable and roomy seats, might I add. Thankfully, fear of flying isn’t as debilitating to me as the flat, frozen ground, so I quickly settle in.
Within a few minutes, I’m fighting sleep. It’s not my fault. It’s four thirty in the morning, and half of the jet is already sound asleep. Not a minute later, I have my neck pillow snug around my neck, and I pass out in my seat.
Settling into a high seat in the suite that overlooks the ice, I set my notebook and pen down after taking notes. Andy offered me a Nighthawks laptop to use, but it’s a lot harder for me to type nowadays than it is to just write with my right hand.
My heart is hammering in my chest, but I’m forcing myself to take controlled breaths, keeping my panic at bay as I try to stay present, processing everything in real time rather than letting it build up.
It’s fine. I’m doing great.
I look way too good to have my makeup run and soak my suit in tears. Not this time.
Besides, I’m not even going to be near the ice tonight, which is going to help with my anxiety tenfold. I’m nice and safe and secure up here, far, far away from the chaos down below.
The first period is about to start, anthems and introductions already done. While I don’t quite know exactly what I’m looking for, I know it’ll stand out. Dropping position too quickly, not reading players right, et cetera. Although, from the footage I saw of the last game, I can’t imagine I’m going to help Matt much at all.
“Holy shit,” a voice says just left of me, a few stools down, loud and clear.
I don’t think they’re talking to me, so I keep my eyes on the ref who’s setting up for puck drop.
“You’re Shay Rooney,” the same voice says, and my breath leaves me instantly, expelling with my silent sigh. “Isaac, come here.”
I can’t avoid this. There’s no point. Especially if they’re some of the injured players. As I turn my head, I immediately recognize them from the roster and injured reserve list.
Isaac Locke is a forward, healing from severely bruised ribs, expected to be back in the next game. And Javier Russo is a defenseman with a fractured distal radius. He’ll be spending a lot more time healing before he’s back.
Smile.You probably look annoyed … which you are because your name always comes with predetermined follow-up thoughts and questions, especially in this industry.
“Hey, yeah. I’m Shay.” I nod, hearing sticks slap the ice.
Their eyes light up, and Isaac smiles. “It’s sick, meeting you. What are …” He glances around, his lips sealing shut and reopening, as if he remembers where we are. “What are you doing here?”
Having an existential crisis?
“I’m, uhh …” I swallow. “I’m a new goalie coach. I’m just taking notes for tonight, so they let me sit up here instead of trying to balance a notebook against the tunnel wall.”
Javier chuckles. “Makes sense. That’s awesome though. I’m sure Matty and Huang are stoked.”
I nod and smile, trying to decide if they’re being smart-asses or being genuine. “Thanks.”
“I’m Javier. This is Isaac. We’re big fans.” He pauses. “We were actually, umm … at the game …” He trails off.
I don’t need him to finish. I already know what he’s going to say. What I don’t know is what the hell he thinks I’m supposed to say.
Oh fun. What a night.
That must’ve been so entertaining.
