14. Sammy

Sammy

“Looking good, Braun!”

When Grey calls out to me across the rink, it cements what I already know—everything feels right today.

My movements are quick, actions precise, every save I’ve managed today has been clean and controlled. The daily morning yoga has really started to pay off—my limbs feel loose and focused, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Brett and Morrison are running drills against me, firing shots from different angles. Most of the other guys took off when practice was officially over, but Grey asked our forwards to stay.

So far, they haven’t gotten a single shot off on me. It’s like time slows down every time they hit the puck. I can track it perfectly, can see where it’s going before it gets there.

“Somebody has been doing their homework,” Brett teases, tapping his stick against the ice when I deflect a wide shot from him. “What is that? Like, fifteen saves in a row?”

“Seventeen!” Isaac calls, from his place on the bench. He has his very own tablet now, and marks things down during practice when Finn can’t make it. She’s tracking everything about my life now—saves, reaction times, water intake, even how long I’m sleeping down to the second.

The videographer is hanging around near Isaac, chatting with him between shots. The thought of Finn watching this tape later makes me straighten up.

She’ll analyze every movement. Every motion. Like she has been for the past three weeks. The moment the regular season started, she became even more serious. I hadn’t thought it was possible.

Without meaning to, I think about the look on her face when we’d been role playing in her office. When I’d said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

And I wasn’t lying—Finn is the kind of classic beauty that sets the standard for everyone else. That sleek, dark hair and those intense eyes.

Harper is beautiful too, of course. But in a different way. Finn is beautiful like the ocean at night, reaching out and away from you, waves lapping quietly even when you can’t see them. Harper is beautiful like Christmas lights, like the flowers a little kid hands you—crushed tightly in their palm.

“Alright!” Grey shouts, tucking his clipboard up under his arm. “Let’s run some breakaways!”

I fight against the dread that builds in my body. Even three weeks into the regular season, I still struggle with being one-on-one.

Focusing, I try to remember Martin’s advice. Try to remember that he struggled with this, too.

Trust your instincts, stay in your body. Don’t over think it.

But as Brett picks up the puck and starts skating toward me, my mind fills with noise, static, making everything feel far away and numb.

The statistics Finn showed me about my breakaway save percentage. The goal I let in during our last game. The way the crowd groans every time I face a one-on-one.

Brett dekes left, then right, and I'm already moving the wrong way when he shoots. The puck slides past me, an easy goal. My body feels like an amalgamation of parts, rather than a fluid thing. I feel the lens of the camera on me like a giant eye, searching and prodding for weak spots.

“Reset!” Grey calls. There’s an edge in his voice.

Morrison's up next, skating toward me. This time I stay focused, track his movement, wait for him to make the first move. But at the last second, I hesitate—that split-second of doubt that always manages its way into my head—and he roofs it over my shoulder.

“Come on, Sammy,” Isaac says encouragingly.

The next three attempts all end the same way. By the fifth goal, my frustration is building to a dangerous level. I slam my stick against the post, the crack echoing through the arena.

“Take five!” Grey calls out, and I'm grateful for the break. As I skate to the bench, I can see him on his phone, and that phone call outside the locker room comes flooding back to me again. Is he looking for a replacement? Scheduling a meeting with a free agent?

“Hey.” Brett appears beside me, offering a water bottle. He says nothing else, just sits next to me, and I focus on taking deep breaths. Finn says breathing deep is a great way to reset your mindset, to get rid of those anxious feelings.

My therapist says I need to learn coping methods to keep from melting down when things get hard. She also said that I should just have an honest one-on-one with Grey in which we get frank about what I want—not to be traded—and how likely that is to happen.

The constant worry over whether or not I’ll be able to keep my spot on the team isn’t doing me any favors, the therapist said. It would be better to just know, to hear it from Grey himself, rather than make assumptions based on one overheard phone call.

“How is it going with that coach?”

“Finn.”

“Yeah, Finn. Things seem like they’re mostly improving, right? I mean—you were hella strong during the opener. And steady for the past two weeks.”

The pre-season melted into the regular season. I’d had our official opening night built up in my head as a huge deal—my make or break—but my Finn-appointed therapist told me that was no way to think about it. That every game was equal, and it was about doing my best.

If I’m being honest, it helped having Finn there. Watching. For some reason, it made me want to be better, but it also made me feel like I didn’t need to think about my flaws, or focus on them.

She was doing that for me.

“Sure, everything except the breakaways,” I finally say.

“I’m sure you’re hearing this from everyone, but don’t let it get in your head.”

“Yeah.” I take a long drink, trying to calm down. “Easier said than done.”

“You’re telling me,” Brett laughs, and when he leans back against the bench, he lets his head loll over to me. After everything went down last year, he’s been nothing but relaxed on the ice and off. “I had this huge battle in my head going on, back when I was still trying to grow up. Mature, or whatever. There was always a part of me that sabotaged myself. That was the part that thought it would be a good idea to get on the water ski while drunk.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth. I didn’t know he had been drinking that day, but it makes sense. When new about his injury made the rounds, I’d tried not to think about it. It could have been career-ending. Brett is nothing if not lucky.

“So what I’m saying is: I get what it’s like to be at war in your head. Sucks. And everyone always thinks they can fix you with a well-placed speech.” He laughs a little, acknowledging that he’s doing that now. “But for what it’s worth, sometimes you just have to push through. Eventually, things will fall into place. Life will hand you what you need.”

From the look on his face, I know he’s thinking of Fallon. Of her and the baby.

I think about Harper. About Finn’s insistence that I do something about my crush.

“That's pretty much what Finn says.”

“Yeah, she’s smart,” Brett says, grinning. “Don’t get me wrong—she gives me principal vibes when she comes in here, but it’s clear she’s doing a good job. Even if the sound of her heels in here makes me break out in a sweat.”

I laugh despite myself. He's not wrong—Finn can be intimidating with her intense focus and demanding standards. But she's also the first person who's made me believe I could be more than just another goalie.

“One more round,” Grey calls out. “Sammy? You ready?”

I take a deep breath, adjusting my mask and standing. “Yeah, Coach.”

This time, when Brett comes down the ice, I try something different. Instead of thinking about statistics or expectations, I imagine Finn watching. Not judging, just...believing in me.

That expression on her face she gets when she talks about my potential. When she insists I go after what I want.

The way she looked at me on the mountain when I finally faced my fear of heights.

Brett makes his move, but this time I stay patient. When he shoots, my glove comes up automatically—just like in practice with Bennett. The puck hits leather, and Isaac lets out a cheer.

I still let in two of the next four attempts, but they're better—closer saves, smarter movements. Not perfect, but progress.

Small steps.

***

“Sammy!” a voice singsongs through the arena.

I freeze when I hear my name, echoing off the walls. It’s Harper—I can tell from the pitch and cadence. Every time she speaks, it’s like the lilting twinkle of a Disney princess.

When I turn around, she’s walking toward me, her ponytail swinging behind her, pink flats making little muffled noises against the polished floor. Today, she’s wearing a pink skirt and matching blazer, with a little pink strawberry pin on the lapel. Like something out of a cartoon. Out of a fairy tale.

When she stops in front of me, sending a white-toothed grin in my direction, I swear she even smells like berries. Of course she coordinates her outfits with her perfume.

“Hi, Harper,” I say, hitching my duffel bag up onto my shoulder and trying to keep my eyes locked on her face.

“I’m so glad I caught you,” she says, breathing a little hard, and I realize we’re the only two in the arena, standing just outside the rink. From here, I can still feel the radiating coolness of the ice, and her cheeks are a bit pink.

“I’m working on some social media stuff for the holiday season,” she goes on, “and I was wondering if you’d be willing to participate?”

“That depends on what you have in mind,” I laugh.

I think about Brett and some of the other guys, and how she got them to put on cheap Halloween costumes and do a little skit for the team’s TikTok page.

“For Thanksgiving, I want to get a couple of short confessionals from a bunch of you. Just, like, saying what you’re thankful for, you know? No more than five minutes of your time. And it would probably be better to think of it ahead of time. For Christmas, I have this dance idea that would include Santa hats, and Brett already said he’s on board with it. And then New Years would be about resolutions. What do you think?”

I think I blanked out during the middle of what she was saying, my mind losing focus while locking onto her lips, which shine with a bubblegum pink lip gloss.

“Sammy?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say, cheeks heating. “I’d love to be a part of it.”

A lie, but I can’t think when she’s standing this close, smelling like a bakery. The moment I say it, her face lights up and she pulls her phone out, clearly jotting something down in her notes app. When she looks back up, she reaches out and puts her hand on my arm, just below my elbow. I fight my first instinct, which is to yank it away.

That wouldn’t be suspicious at all .

“Wanna walk me to my car?” Harper asks, and I realize she has her purse on her shoulder, her keys in her hand. “It’s pretty safe, but I always feel better when someone is with me. Especially this late.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say, falling into step next to her as we circle the rink, heading to the employee entrance in the back.

“Thank you, seriously,” she says, clicking her phone off and slipping it into her pocket. “For walking me to the car, but also for agreeing to do the videos. You wouldn’t believe how stingy the older guys are with their time. They act like having a family at home means they can’t spare an extra five minutes.”

“Ha,” I laugh, thinking of Grey. Of what Devon was like last season, and now even Brett. “What about you? You hurrying home tonight?”

“Just a normal Friday night with Josh,” she says, dropping the name so casually it’s clear I’m supposed to know who that is. I think of Finn, pushing me to ask Harper out, and my heart sinks. Of course, Josh could just be her brother. Or a cat.

“Though, I might do something for Halloween,” Harper adds, “after the game. Haven’t decided yet.”

Do people normally have weekly Friday night dates with their brothers?

We reach the door and push through into the cool Vermont night. I brace myself against the cold, glancing over at Harper to see if she’s warm enough.

“What about you?” she asks when I meet her eyes. Her eyebrows are raised, like she may have already asked that question.

“Oh,” I laugh, thinking about my apartment, and how I’ll go home, flop on the couch, and find an old hockey game to watch. If I’m feeling extra mean, I’ll pull up my own game tape and watch through it, slow-motioning to the exact moment it’s clear the puck will sail past my gloves, burying in the net behind me. “Same old Friday night for me, too.”

We reach her car—which is, adorably, a little yellow Volkswagen Beetle—and come to a stop just outside it, next to the driver’s door. If I was confident, like Finn insists I need to be, this is when I would ask about Josh. See if he is a cat. Ask to keep her company tonight, or to see her for coffee in the morning.

But I don’t. The moments stretches, then she bites her lip and clears her throat, turning jerkily to her car door and gesturing, her keys clinking in her hand.

“Alright, well,” Harper says, nodding at her car. “I’ll let you get to it, Sammy. And I’ll see you Monday.”

“Right. Yeah.”

I step back and wave as she climbs in, watching as she starts the engine up and slowly backs out. She holds her hand up, our eyes connecting for a moment as she puts the car into drive and leaves.

It’s only after the tips of my ears go numb that I realize I’ve been rooted to the spot, staring after the road where her car turned away, disappearing into the night.