Page 50 of Scoring Chance

“Okay. Enough with the spiraling. Let’s play some hockey,” Bill says.

The instant we cross the blue line, I can feel Tanner in my periphery, like a magnetic pull. He doesn’t call for the puck; he doesn’t need to. I know exactly where he’ll be, and when I thread the pass through, he’s there like he was waiting just for me. He flicks it back without even looking, trusting I’ll be where he wants me, and damn if I’m not. Out here, it’s more than hockey—it’s the way we move together, like my body already knows his rhythm, like we’ve been practicing for something bigger than the game.

“You’re good at this,” Tanner says.

“I grew up with nothing but this.”

He nods.

I’m not sure what makes me say it then, but the words come anyway.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He looks over, eyes dark and serious. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…this whole mess. If I had to do it with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then he passes the puck back to me, smooth as glass.

“Me too,” he says.

15

TANNER

The job interview was a bust.

Another polite smile, another stiff handshake, another “We’ll be in touch,” that meant absolutely nothing. I walked out of the office lobby and into the too-bright sunlight, already pulling off my tie before I hit the sidewalk. I hated how these things chipped away at you—the performance of professionalism, the pretense of being someone who’s not desperate but also not too aloof, just the right amount of hungry. Exhausting.

I believed in monogamy in my professional life as well as my romantic life. I was at my previous company for nine years before I was canned. I could’ve spent my whole career there. Not because it was the dream job. But it was a fine place to work. I was comfortable. I didn’t have a drive to climb the corporate ladder like Des. Something stable and pleasant enough allowed me to focus on my family.

I’d rather be a slut for monogamy than go through this job search hell more than necessary.

By the time I get home, all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for a week. But as soon as I pull up to the house, something stops me cold.

Davy and Des playing hockey in the driveway.

Des is still in his work slacks and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, sweating a little under the low golden sun. He’s holding Davy’s hockey stick in one hand, trying to coach him through footwork, but Davy keeps tripping over the cones they’d laid out in a lopsided pattern.

I crack my window to hear their conversation.

“Keep your knees bent! You’re not herding goats, bud.”

Davy laughs so hard he snorts. “Why would I herd goats with a hockey stick?”

Des puts a hand to his heart. “Blasphemy. All true hockey players know how to herd goats. Gretzky? Goat herder.”

“Wait—seriously?”

“I don’t know. Who knows what they do in Canada. I had to do a million of these drills when I played in high school, and they actually helped me be more agile on the ice. When I was more agile, I could get around opposing players and get more chances to score. Let’s try it again.” He tosses the stick to Davy.

Davy weaves through the cone course on his roller blades, dipping in between each cone with grace. Des cheers him on like he’s at an Olympic trial.

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Des shouts. Their hands come together in a loud, proud high-five.

I bite back a smile and lean on my steering wheel, just watching. There’s something surreal about it—the way Davy looks up at Des with this effortless trust, the way Des crouches down to fix the Velcro on Davy’s shin guard. I wasn’t sure when the shift happened, but Des was starting to look...comfortable here. Stable. Like maybe this could be a fine place to stay for the rest of his life.