16. Sammy

Sammy

It sounds stupid even as I’m saying it. Like something out of a movie. But I like this. I like being here, with Finn, and spending time with her outside of our strict, agenda-directed meetings.

I liked seeing the look on her face when she saw the silly pizza flavors. When I brought back the drinks. I like having her here, relaxing into the slightly greasy seat, a little bit of that ever-present worry melted off her face.

Though the worry is back, her expression shifted to surprise and trepidation at my last statement.

“What—?” She coughs, shaking her head and taking a sip of her water. “What are you talking about?”

“Harper likes me more when she thinks I’m with someone else,” I say, the argument coming to me as I rationalize it. “Sure, tonight was good—but what if she loses interest the moment I call her? What is it people say—to play hard to get, right?”

“Sammy, we can’t… fake date . God, I can’t believe I said that phrase out loud. Penny would be rolling with laughter.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s completely ridiculous! Because I despise those romance books she’s always reading. Every time she gets me to read one, my major take away is that they never end up being anything like real life. All these fake scenarios. Fake dating especially.”

“It wouldn’t be ‘fake dating,’” I say, trying that phrase out on my tongue. It feels weird, and Finn’s eyebrows raise a fraction, like it’s particularly funny coming from me. Big hockey man, throwing out romance terms.

I push forward. “It would just be…an extension of what you’re already doing. You think my thing , my block, or whatever, has to do with Harper. And if us spending more time together, pretending to be a couple, is going to help her along in liking me, then so what?”

“So what? It’s so unprofessional.” She’s blushing. “…Dating a client.”

“But you wouldn’t actually be dating a client.”

“Sammy, people would think that, though. I’m a woman. I don’t have the luxury of sleeping with anyone I want and expecting my professional life to remain intact. If word got out that I was with a client, my credibility would be gone. Even worse, other clients might expect the same treatment.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, I grimace. Of course, I hadn’t even taken a second to consider what a situation like that might mean for her. At once, I feel a little ashamed that I said something so self-centered and inconsiderate.

I frown, take a drink, and meet her eyes. “Sorry, Finn. I didn’t think about it like that.”

I’m prepared to move on and try to salvage what’s left of the evening, but something flashes over Finn’s face then, her expression changing. She purses her lip, taps her chin, and looks out into the large area between the booths, where some people are dancing.

“Everything I said about my professional credibility is true,” she says, slowly. “But I suppose if my clients never found out…maybe this could just stay in a little bubble. Me, you, and Harper. Just nudging her in the right direction.”

“Finn,” I say, shaking my head, “I wouldn’t ask you to—”

“I want this to work.” Her eyes blaze when she swings her head around to look at me again. “I have never failed to bring someone to their full potential, and I’m not about to let it happen now just because your roadblock is a girl who is more interested when you’re with someone else.”

“Well,” I mutter, looking down into my drink, “I wouldn’t say it like that —”

“We’d have to make sure she didn’t recognize me at work.”

“I mean…” I laugh, gesturing to her huge wig with my drink. “You’re pretty unrecognizable now.”

Her eyes go big, and she slowly reaches up to touch her hair.

“You’re right,” she says, never taking her eyes from me. “And my makeup is different. I wonder if the woman you’re seeing right now, and the woman I am at the arena and in other professional contexts, if they could stay completely separate.”

“Okay,” I say, ignoring the way my heart starts to thud in my chest.

The whole thing is a little silly, and there’s the chance that Harper catches on immediately, but that doesn’t quiet the voice in my head. And it’s saying that this is my chance to spend more time with Finn outside of work. To have her like this, proposing schemes and trying new things. Sitting across from me, her ankle brushing against mine under the table.

And I’ll take what I can get.

“Oh, one more thing,” Finn says, her eyes flashing in the way that says she’s about to make me do something I don’t want to.

“What?” I ask, already wincing.

“If I do this for you—because it is outside the bounds of my contract, and could cause me some problems—then you have to do something for me .”

“Name it.’

“Go through with the skydiving,” she says, smiling when I deflate and look to the ceiling dramatically. “For real this time. Take the leap. Don’t make me beg.”

That statement does something strange to my stomach, but I just grab a napkin, wipe my hand, then hold it out to her across the table.

“Okay,” I say, when she takes my hand and gives it a solid pump. Her’s is smaller than mine, obviously, but still strong. Warm. “It’s a deal.”

***

Our initial regular season game against the Maple Leafs takes place on the first weekend of November. I thought it was starting to get chilly in Burlington, but Toronto is truly cold, and we’re bundled up as we file into the arena for warm-ups.

“I just have this good feeling about today,” Brett is saying at my side, his steps practically bouncing.

“You say that every day,” I laugh, trying to keep from rolling my eyes. Since he got with Fallon, Brett has been nothing but a beacon of optimism. Sometimes, like today, it’s a little annoying.

It’s easy to be positive when everything falls into place for you.

“That’s because it’s true,” he says, throwing the door to the visitor’s locker room open hard enough that I can follow him in without touching it. Inside, the scene is chaos—players talking and shouting, stuffing their things into lockers, making plans for warm-ups.

“The locker room is an essential part of your pre-game routine,” Finn had said, her eyes serious in her office. “Don’t engage in any kind of nonsense—”

“Nonsense?”

“Yes,” she’d said, giving me a look. “ Nonsense. You know exactly what I’m talking about—use those noise-canceling headphones and just try to get into the zone.”

We’d spent a lot of time talking about “the zone.” What it is, and how psychology can help me reach that state. Now, true to my word, I reach into my bag, give Brett an apologetic look, and put the headphones on, listening to the “deep focus” frequencies Finn downloaded for me.

She was absolutely right when we first met. There are so many things she asks of me that feel ridiculous—like listening to this buzzing in my ears to focus me—but I’m trying to take them in stride. Give them a genuine shot.

“Some things will work, some won’t,” she’d said in her office. “Our job is just to give them all a fair shot.”

“Okay,” I said, but something in my tone must have alerted her to my skepticism, because she stopped, bracing her hands on her desk. I had to avert my eyes to keep from staring at her chest.

“Listen—I have so many test cases and data spreads I could show you about this, but I’m going to tell you about a pretty simple example that most people have heard of.”

“Okay.”

“There was this cycling team—I don’t remember what country—that was total shit, okay? And they didn’t want to be shit anymore, so they hired a coach. Coach comes in and decides they’re going to find a bunch of tiny—I’m talking tiny—ways to improve. By the time they add them all up, they get something substantial, right?

“We’re talking about special lotions, wearing masks and washing hands to avoid getting sick—even painting the inside of the equipment shed white so they could make sure it was dust free. And after they did all that, do you know what happened?”

“I’m guessing they—” I didn’t know anything about cycling “—won?”

“They went on to win for years. They created an environment of success, of diligence and precise action. They added up all those tiny things. And this—the deep frequencies for your brain— this is one of those things. As ridiculous as it may seem.”

My physical therapist arrives to help me warm-up before the game, and gestures for me to keep the headphones on. I jump rope, lunge, and jog on the sidelines in my t-shirt and sweats for half an hour before he dismisses me to get dressed.

Brett’s back in the locker room, too and grins at me, mouthing something obnoxious as I get dressed, still leaving the headphones on. I’m fully suited up before I finally switch them off and hang them in the locker, following a handful of the guys out onto the ice to start our rink warm-ups.

From here, time starts to speed up. The stands start to really fill, Maple Leafs fans glaring down at us with surly expressions. I’m down at the net, going through some drills, when I glance up and see Finn in the executive seats. Through the glass of the box, I catch her and Penny in a private luxury area. Penny is talking to someone—maybe Fallon or Ellie—but Finn is standing at the glass, tablet in her hand, staring down at the ice.

At me.

My chest feels like that moment you switch from the hot tub to the pool—shocked, exposed. I want it to last forever.

When the game starts, I carry that feeling with me. I think, in the future, when I look back on my career, this might be the moment I’ll cite as changing my trajectory forever.

The game starts, and the Maple Leafs center wins the face-off clean, sending the puck back to their defensemen at the point. The entire rink is the sound of skates and ice, the singular crack of the puck flying through the chaos.

For an entire period, the guys chase the puck back and forth, only getting a few weak shots. Nothing sticks, and I’m able to block what comes easily. So is the Toronto goalie.

We’re tied with nothing at the end of the first period, but the crowd is rowdy, clearly sensing the energy. This is a story of two solid defenses, not two struggling offenses. Brett is dripping with sweat when coach calls us in, rolling through our minor shifts in strategy for the next period, then we’re back on the ice.

In the second period, I block three more shots, but Toronto allows one in. Brett gets a slap shot into the net, and the crowd around us groans, but the guys celebrate. It’s like I can still feel those frequencies vibrating the gray matter in my brain, muting everything that’s not important.

Three-quarters into the third period, we’re still up one on them when someone slams Brett into the boards, getting the puck loose and rocketing it to a guy at center rink. He flies with it, heading my way. Every other Maple Leaf on the ice seems to crush in around me, like bugs to a light.

I drop into my butterfly stance, squaring up to the shooter, feeling a strange sense of calm despite the sea of blue jerseys crowding my crease. My positioning is perfect—my mind practically empty.

The D-man fires a slap shot, but I read it early, tracking the puck through the forest of legs in front of me. It deflects off someone's shin pad, changing direction, but my eyes never leave it. I feel like a robot, like a machine. Finely calibrated.

The puck skips up, wobbling end over end toward my blocker side.

Time slows. I can see everything—the shooting lane opening up, Toronto's star winger creeping to the back door for a one-timer, Brett desperately trying to get his stick in the passing lane.

The puck's still airborne when their center swats at it with his stick, a mid-air baseball swing that sends it rocketing toward the top corner. It’s a crazy shot, and something in the back of my mind insists it’s going to require a crazy save.

Pure instinct takes over.

I push off my right edge hard, feeling my skate bite into the ice. My momentum carries me across the crease. But glove hand won't make it in time.

So I do something I've never tried in a game before—never tried before—I twist my body in mid-air, arching backward like some crazy hockey Matrix move.

Normally, I’d be thinking about how ridiculous I look, about how if this fails, I’d be a laughingstock, a viral internet meme, the goalie who really thought he was doing something.

But I’m not thinking at all. I’m just moving. Stopping the goal.

The puck catches the edge of my shoulder pad, pops straight up, and I snag it with my glove as I'm falling.

The impact of the ice ricochets through my body as I hit it hard, but I keep the puck locked in my trapper, holding it up for the ref to see.

Dead play.

The crowd erupts. Through my mask, from my sideways position on the ice, I can see Brett's jaw drop. Even Toronto's bench is standing, half-impressed, half-pissed off.

“Holy shit , Braun!” Brett’s hands land on my shoulders, and he and some of the other guys help me to my feet, then crash into me. Amid the crush, I hear Brett yell, “That was insane!”

I grin behind my mask, thinking about Devon’s spectacular season two years ago. All those “trick” shots and fancy moves that ended up winning us game after game.

The replay shows on the jumbotron, and the crowd goes nuts again. I allow myself a quick glance at the bench, where Grey is trying to hide a smile. Isaac is to his left, giving me a thumbs- up, and I even see Harper—a tiny dot of lavender in a sea of white and blue—hurrying to the control room, no doubt to ask for footage of the save to post as soon as possible.

Then, meaning to, I look up to the box and find Finn. She’s standing in exactly the same spot, her tablet limp in her left hand, her face open with joy as she looks down at me. Without thinking, I raise my hand to her, pure joy beating through my body when she slowly, as though unsure why she’s doing it, lifts her hand back to me, giving it a little shake like the soft impression of a fist pump.

With that image in my head, I’m able to shut the Maple Leafs out for the rest of the game. Brett scores again and we take it two-zero. When we skate off the ice, it’s with the sense that something in the orbit of this season has altered, setting us on a completely different path.