Page 58 of Get Me to the Starting Line
How the hell did that happen? The Boston player skates off, his team dogpiling him. In ten games, I’ve only let four goals in. Now five. All because I can’t keep my head out of the stands.
“Richard, what the fuck?” Nate, one of the forwards, skates over to me. I’m not paying him any attention, watching the replay on the Jumbotron. Holy shit. It sailed right in. I should’ve been able to save it.
I shake my head, as if that can get the woman who has set up camp at the forefront to leave. Taking my blocker off, I squirt water in my mouth and on my face, needing to recentre.
My beard itches, my chin strap rubbing the new growth wrong. One of my skates is tied a little tighter than the other. Something is pinching in my helmet.
The inner roar in my head blurs my vision.
What is happening to me?
Everything is bugging me right now. I’ve had games like this before. It’s rare, but on an off day, I try to either sit it out or play through it and hope I don’t screw up for my team.
I’m powering through, trying to take all my agitation out on the puck and the players coming at me. I hate this fucking team. They love to crowd my space, leaving me with little room in my crease.
One of their forwards stands so close to me I can hear his disgusting breathing. It’s a dangerous place for him to be. He’s not small—almost no hockey players are small—but he’s no match for me.
Especially not when I’m this pissed off.
The puck is coming to my net, and the fucker in front tries to back up, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He slams into me, tripping us both. I see the puck coming from the corner and I extend my leg, hearing the save more than I can see it.
A Boston player tries again, but the front of my net is mayhem.
There’s an unwritten rule amongst hockey players: Don’t touch the goalie. And this fucker decides to slam into me. An all-out brawl breaks out and I’m trapped under a mass of players. The puck is in here somewhere, but no one knows where it is.
It’s an eternity before the damn refs get off their asses to blow the whistle and begin throwing players off each other. One of the Boston players knocks into me again and I’ve had it—I put all my power behind it when I smash his head with my blocker.
The whistle blows loudly. I’m getting a penalty for that, I know it.
I couldn’t give a shit.
“RICHARD!” It’s the coach. I’d give him the finger if my hands weren’t trapped in my gloves.
A player takes my penalty. If I can’t get my head in the game, they’re going to get a goal when we’re shorthanded. Two minutes. It’s two minutes.
It’s only forty-five seconds.
GOAL.
I roar. Scaring the players in front of me. Fuck. That shouldn’t have gone in. I look over as the coach yells my name again.
He’s pulling me?
I say nothing, look nowhere but the tunnel as I skate off the ice in a blind rage.
A single word pounds in my adrenaline-fuelled mind.
Mine.
Aweekafterthatembarrassing 3–1 loss—and subsequent tie and second loss—I’m still angry. Letting two goals in was enough to bench me, and Coach never let me go back out. Probably a safe call. I was not in the right headspace. I’m still not, but I’m on my way to fix that.
I pound my fist on her door.
Startled sounds and a few curse words filter through the other side before she spies me through the peephole.
The deadbolt slides and she unlocks her door, whipping it open to reveal her standing there like a shock to my system.
It’s been a week since I’ve laid eyes on her—I couldn’t get up the nerve to go running with her. The right thing to do would’ve been to text her, but with the mood I was in, it only would’ve made things worse.
