Page 1 of Goalie interference

Chapter 1

Ash

August, 2015

Harder–I could push harder.

I could always push harder.

My lungs seized as I tried to catch my breath, eyes closed, and leaning all my weight on the boards. Water felt like fire when I tried to swallow it down, burning with every cold breath I took.

But it was good pain.

It was all good pain.

There was one thing in this world I was good at, and it was this. It was making sure that, no matter the cost, that black bullet of rubber did not make it past me–I was a fucking wall.

A wall of muscle and sweat that might as well have been brick and cement.

Being a goalie was all fun and games when we were laughing about our weird superstitions, or how we spent so much time alone that we’d just talk to ourselves. I was my own best friend in that net–I didn’t run with a partner or have two wings to talk to when I was bored.

I had a backup goalie who was nice to my face, but was probably praying I'd get injured, and they’d get their shot.

Goalies weren't like other hockey players–they weren’t interchangeable. Twenty-three guys on a team, and most of them would likely see some ice time at some point that night, but unless we fucked up or got hurt, a goalie was out on that ice all sixty painful minutes.

Those sixty minutes of ache and exhaustion–you either learned to love it, or it consumed you.

And I loved it.

A sharp whistle pierced through the air, calling everyone into the locker rooms for a shower and video study. I let out a breath of relief, knowing I at least had a few extra minutes to get my shit together and not throw up on the ice before heading in–I was always the last off the ice.

Practice wasn’t normally so bad, and normally I could rally, but I was working off a hangover and four hours of what we could barely call sleep. I didn’t make a habit of partying the night before a game or practice, but it was our captain's birthday, so exceptions were made.

Even if I regretted them heavily today.

“Kincaid,” our coach hollered, moving along the boards on his side until he was looking down at me. I was still bent over the boards, head on my padded arms and breathing slowly, swallowing back every gag of twelve-hour-old tequila and pizza. “You alright, son? You look rough today.”

“I’m fine,” I panted, forcing myself upright slowly. “Just tired, but I’m good.”

It was a lie, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to call me on it. If I felt good enough to lie, then he was going to trust it, because the alternative?

Letting one of my backup goalies play for me tonight.

Goaltending was a ruthless position–one of our defensemen would have a fucking hangnail and sit out one night, not feel any effects from it, but not a goalie. If I sat out tonight, Thompson could have a really fucking good night replacing me, and just like that, he could be starting the next few games–taking my first-string spot because I was just a little hungover?

Over my dead body.

“If you say so,” he huffed, clamping a broad hand on my shoulder supportively. “Why don’t you head in for a shower–your new coach is covering your video study this morning while I do the rest of the team’s.”

“You’ll like him.”

Oh, Reed…

He really did mean that when he said it.

“You said that about the last one, too,” I breathed, moving slowly to the door to the rink and almost stumbling when my skates hit the padded floor. “And the one before him, and the one before him–I’m pretty sure this is coach number five that you thought I'd like–”

“Yes, but this one’s different,” he hummed, shutting the door for me and following me down the tunnel to our locker room. “He’s a retired goalie from the San Jose Sharks, and he seemed plenty nice in our interview. I told him about some of your challenges, and he seems to think you guys would make a great team.”