Page 3 of Get Me to the Starting Line
If I’m being honest, last year was my peak performance. I haven’t been as good this year, though I’m not sure if others have noticed. I feel slower, less flexible. Only by a fraction, but it’s there.
I glower back and give him the finger.
“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, his fist clenching with his terrible temper.
He can’t do anything to me. As the goalie, I’m protected from most teammate bullshit. Though I’m a part of the team, I work alone. I train with my coaches alone and I win or lose alone.
When I glance back at the paper, a tight ball of anxiety blooms in my chest. My shoulders slump forward as I reread the words I’ve already memorized. I have to make this decision alone too. Adam isn’t back from his trip to Utah so I can’t even ask him for advice. He’s not my coach—he’s player development for the forwards—but he’s a friend. Maybe my only one.
And it’s not like I have a lot of family I can talk to. It’s just me and my dad, and he’s not exactly the person I’d want to confide in about this. He wants me to retire and move back to Montreal. But I’m not sure if I want that. I miss my home, of course, but being so close to my dad? The space is good. The space makes me feel like I’m not failing anyone.
The rest of my team and staff pretty much think I’m an asshole, but I prefer it that way. They leave me alone. I’d rather be seen as a giant dick than a lumbering idiot who can’t string two words together. It’s not that my English sucks—my English is better than everyone here, especially the Americans. But with my thick francophone accent, my stutter is more noticeable.
Add in the notion that I don’t enjoy engaging much with others and you get a recipe for people assuming you’re a dick.
I rub my chest subconsciously, trying to ease the building tension. Closing my eyes, I count backwards from ten. And again. It doesn’t work. I’ll have to deal with the feeling of the walls closing in during practice until I can go for a run later.
Running has always had a way of quieting my mind. I see others running with their headphones, but I can’t listen to anything. Thepounding of my feet on the pavement and the sound of my own breathing is comforting.
My head feels so much clearer when I’m moving. I start bouncing my leg as I fixate on the clock. Only a few more hours until I can get on the ice.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Practicewasabysmal.Iinwardly flinch as I recall the number of shots that went into my net. I knew my trainers were disappointed. I even saw our head coach, Henry Whyatt, speaking to them afterwards.
When he approached me, he made a joke about having an off day. When I didn’t correct him, choosing instead to brush past him to my dressing room, his face fell.
I have a feeling my backup counterparts are being trained extra hard in precaution. Our regular season just started so they haven’t played yet, but I can imagine the pep talks their own trainers are giving them. When I see them whispering on the other side of the ice, I wonder what they’re saying about me. I wonder if they’ve noticed I’ve slipped. And not just today when my mind has been anywhere but the net.
Relief floods me as I make it to my dressing room without encountering anyone. I’m not in the mood to make small talk—my least favourite kind of talk. My regular stretching routine didn’t seem to cut it today. I’m sore. Nothing I do seemsto work lately.
Talk about a fucking pity party.
I should talk to Adam, but I don’t want to bother him. He’s proposing to Paige this week. Maybe he already has—it all depends on when they crossed the finish line. Well, I guess they could’ve been disqualified again, but I doubt it. Though at this point, anything is possible. My heart races again.
What if they did get disqualified? That would honestly suck. I can’t even imagine their disappointment. What if they got seriously hurt this time? Last time Paige slipped and fell, leading her off course. They could get lost or—
My spiralling train of thought comes to a screeching halt. Paige and Adam are fine. They’ve prepared for this. They’re trained and, chances are, everything is going to be fine.
I race through my end-of-day routines, placing everything where it goes and taking comfort in the exactness of it all. When I was young, my dad would always make jokes about how I needed to know where everything was. He’d make a game out of it, moving things around to see if I noticed. I always did, and he would laugh in amazement.
It’s probably because my mom left us and I never knew where she was. Knowing where things were became something I could control, something comforting.
Sports appealed to me for that reason, specifically the goaltender position. I had one spot, and I always knew where I needed to be and what I needed to do. And I made sure everyone would know where I was too, in case they needed to find me.
At nineteen, I was one of the youngest goalies to enter the NHL when I started. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. When other kids wanted to play video games, I was practising my hand coordination.
When kids found out I did gymnastics, they made fun of me. But I didn’t care. The flexibility and strength I got from my gymnastics cross-training was unparalleled.
I was the best. I’ve been the best. I’ve been fought over in the draft and been offered hoards of money from teams all across the organization. Before I signed my five-year contract with the Whales, I was able to play on my home team in Montreal. Those were an incredible few years.
But since being traded, I’ve loved living in Vancouver. I don’t know if I want to leave yet. And I can’t talk to my dad about this because without my job with the team, I’d have nothing tying me to the city. My empty apartment, the running paths I frequent, my favourite restaurants—it can all be replaced. That’s been my life. I’ve been replaceable.
Autopilot has taken me home and out to those paths in an attempt to stave off the bitter feelings brewing inside me. My attention stays fixed on the cityscape as I run, trying not to notice people giving me a wide berth. They don’t want to be run over by the giant lumbering down the path.
I may love running, but with my size, it’s sort of impossible to be fast. I don’t mind though. My entire life has been lived at top speed on the ice, but when I run, everything slows down. My mind stops racing and I can think clearly with a different kind of calm.
The wind brushes escaped curls away from my face. Our regular season has begun so my stubble is itching, even though it’ll be months before I have to grow my playoff beard. I resist the urge to scratch at it, knowing I won’t get any lasting relief.
