8. Sammy

Sammy

One thing many people don’t realize about professional hockey is how much those pucks fucking hurt. How terrifying it can be to stand in front of one, even padded to hell.

When a player hits a slap shot, the puck can travel at speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. That’s one thing in baseball, when the ball is traveling over the field, and in some cases, right out of the stadium.

It’s a completely different story when that puck is hurtling through the air and headed straight toward you.

“Braun!” someone shouts, and I’m not sure if it’s Brett or Coach, but either way, I can’t think about them. I can’t pay attention to them.

It’s the opening pre-season game, and the crowd is roaring, their hearts suspended for the split second the shot takes, waiting to see if I’m going to allow the goal or make the save.

Crowds don’t usually care about pre-season games, but with the success the Vipers have had lately, every game is sold out, pre-season or not.

They were lined up around the block this morning, wrapped around the brick walls of Stratton Syrup Stadium, waiting to get inside. Thrilled over the slight chance that they might see one of us—particularly Brett—coming in for warm-ups before the game. When I rolled past the line in my car, I’d felt nauseous. When I rolled the window down, hoping for a cool September breeze, all I got was a push of hot air, still left over from summer.

Now, fans scream and holler. This moment stretches out, my eyes desperately trying to focus on the puck, which is just a black blur against the white of the ice. Muscle memory. Instinct. My entire body coiling and releasing, launching, reacting to the puck.

Then the image of Finn’s disappointment, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, flashes through my mind. The way she’d looked at me in the plane. How her face fell. The disappointment in her eyes when I said I wouldn’t jump.

I’m on the ice—playing a game. It comes back to me, and I spring to action, trying to block the shot. But it doesn’t matter.

I’m a fraction too slow.

The puck clips the edge of my pad and deflects into the net.

When the goal horn blares, it’s deafening. The roar of the crowd is even louder. I can’t see through the embarrassing blurring of my eyes, the heat swarming up my chest and to my face.

“Hey, man,” Brett says, slapping his hands on my shoulder pads. His voice is loud and sure over the sound of the fans around us. “Don’t sweat it, just try and get your head in the game, right?”

I nod and chew on my mouth guard, some of that familiar anxiety starting to creep in.

Toronto’s forward is pumping his fist as his teammates crowd around him. My teammates are frowning, looking down at the ice as they change out.

That’s the third goal they’ve scored on me. And it’s only the first period.

When I come off the ice and Jackson skates on, it feels like a sucker punch. It’s normal for goalies to switch out, but I’ve been spending less and less time on the ice this game. I can see in the way Grey’s jaw tenses that he’s pissed with me.

I haven’t talked to him about quitting the elite coaching, but someone said Finn was staying out at his place, so there’s no way he doesn’t know about it. The skydiving incident happened two days ago, and I’ve heard nothing from Finn since.

There’s a voice in my head telling me that I’m being an idiot—that I need to get on my knees and beg for her to take me back as a client. But there’s another, bigger part of me that knows I’m not worth her time.

It’s just the way the world works. There are some people who are meant to be great, and others who just hold them up. And maybe I’m not one of the greats. I have to learn to be okay with that.

When I go back out onto the ice, my chest feels tight. Brett gives me a tight, encouraging nod, but it can’t loosen the vice. It’s opening night at Stratton Stadium, and I’m unraveling in front of a sellout crowd.

“Shake it off, Braun,” Brett says, voice low the next time he skates past me. I wonder if he can see the panic on my face. “Just trust yourself, man.”

But when I get back in front of the net, I have a sinking certainty that I can’t trust myself. It’s like I’m a beat behind everyone else, my instincts uncalibrated. It feels like I’m watching from outside my own body, unable to sync up with the game’s rhythm or do anything to snap out of it.

The refs blow the whistle for a face-off, and I tap my stick against both posts—left, right—a ritual. But that familiar clang, the vibration through my stick—it doesn’t feel right.

When the puck drops, Brett wins it clean, sending it back to our defense. It moves to the Maple Leafs’ defensive zone, and I allow myself to breathe, force myself to relax each muscle group. My eyes track the puck, watching for a sign that it might head back in this direction.

Toronto is hungry tonight, still stinging from last season’s playoff loss. It shows in every aggressive check, every desperate dive for the puck. Our teams have been building up a rivalry. Felson is a particularly nasty player for the Leafs, and according to Grey, he’s always been that way.

“Some guys are not here for the love of the game,” he said in the locker room before we took the ice. “And they won’t hesitate to fuck your shit up. Are you listening? Felson doesn’t care about your career, and he sure as hell doesn’t care about playing a clean game. He will go for the dirtiest show he can get away with every time. That’s why you all need to have each other’s backs out there. Got it?”

We’d answered back, but my stomach tightened. As goalie, it was my job to watch their backs. To be the last line of defense, and not to let them down. And even back there, listening to Grey, I had the sense that it was not going to be my game.

Felson rocks Brett into the boards hard , and the refs look the other way. The Leafs want revenge, and I’m making it easy for them.

The puck moves back down the ice toward me, and I ready myself, the sound of my own breath deafening inside my helmet.

Another shot comes in and I track it from the blue line, taking position and making the save at the last second. The crowd cheers, but there’s a hollow, robotic motion to it. I know the save doesn’t make up for the last three goals I’ve allowed. When I glance over at Grey on the sideline, his expression confirms as much.

“Time!” Brett hollers, and I glance up at the clock. We have five minutes left in the first period, just five minutes to try and stem the bleeding. I tighten the grip on my stick and watch as the puck moves back into play and the guys wrestle with it, trying to score on the Leafs.

Toronto’s captain, Stevens, gains control of the puck and weaves through our defense. He’s fast—faster than I remember from last season—and before I can adjust my position, he’s breaking away. Just me and him.

Time slows down. It’s like I can hear the scrape of his skates against the ice, can hear each tap tap tap as he juggles the puck, flying in my direction. He has a mean face, a mouth that naturally turns down, and deep, deep frown lines on his forehead.

Another Maple Leaf sick of losing to the Vipers. Fueled by hatred and a new rivalry.

The crowd holds its collective breath as he nears me, Vipers lagging behind him. This is exactly the kind of situation I’ve been drilling with Isaac. The kind of moment I’ve replayed in my head a thousand times. The kind of save that could turn the momentum of the game.

My weak spot.

Stevens dekes left, then right. I follow his movements, trying to stay square to the puck, trying to keep my head straight. Think about it, but not too much. Let my body move. React to the shot.

When Stevens shoots, I hesitate for a microsecond. I’m caught between committing to the glove side or the blocker, my mind halted like a computer with a virus.

The puck whistles past me, top shelf. The horn sounds again, lights blinding me from the side. The cheering of the visiting fans is sour, gloating. I can practically see the scowls coming from the Vipers fans.

I don’t want to imagine everyone I know—the guy’s wives, friends of the team, Harper—up in the box, sucking air in through their teeth and murmuring about me. Calling it a bad game. Saying there’s still a chance we could come back.

It’s four to two, and it feels like the cheering will never end. Like the sound is drilling directly into my skill. Stevens is skating past our bench, hollering something I can’t make out. Grey twitches but stays stoic, his expression unreadable.

Brett calls for a time out, gathering us around the bench. He’s stepped up, taking Devon’s place following his retirement, and according to everyone, he’s doing a great job.

“—would you really hate ending up like Brett? Being one of the highest paid and most successful players in the league? Being something more than an average goalie, in and out of the league without a reason for anyone to remember his name?”

Finn’s voice is in my head, and I can’t shake it free. As Brett speaks, my brain can’t hold on to a single thing he’s saying, but watching him, I know that Finn is right. Brett is going down in the books as one of the greatest hockey players of all time, and his career has only just begun.

People love him. He’s growing up. I’m just getting old, and losing my shot.

“Sammy, listen,” Brett says, grabbing me as the other guys disperse. I wince without meaning to when he continues, “You gotta lock it down man. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we gotta work through it.”

The timeout ends, and Jackson takes the ice again. I guzzle water and watch our guys battle for the puck, getting another score in on the Leafs.

Grey sends me back out on the ice when we reset for another face-off. We’re in the second period now. My legs are heavy, my chest tight. The confidence I built up during pre-season feels like it’s leaking out of me with every passing second.

A shot comes in from the point, and I hear Finn’s voice again.

“You can do this, Sammy.”

I make the save, but the rebound kicks out right to Morrison's stick.

“Be bold, Sammy!”

Morrison one-times the puck before I can recover, and it sails into the net. I’m breathing hard, a lump lodged firmly in my throat. The very last thing I need right now is to cry in front of everyone, in front of the fans. To prove to Grey that I can’t handle this. Sucking in a deep breath, I ignore the image of my father in his hospital bed, listening to the audio of this game, his eyes closed but his brain supplying him with the images.

If he has any idea what’s going on around him, he’ll know that I’m floundering.

The crowd is groaning, and someone stands, shouting, “Pull him!”

I skate off the ice, cheeks burning. Jackson replaces me. The second period goes smoother, with Brett scoring twice more and shoring up the difference.

When the horn finally sounds for the second intermission, I'm the first one off the ice. In the tunnel, away from the cameras and the crowd, I rip off my mask and jerk it, stopping myself just before I slam it against the wall.

Instead, I drop it to the ground, and the sound echoes through the concrete corridor, sad and subtle. Just like me.

Maybe Finn was right. Maybe I needed that breakthrough, that boldness. But now she's gone, probably halfway back to California, and I'm here, falling apart before the season can even begin. I can hear the rest of the guys filtering into the locker room down the other hallway, and I take a deep breath, getting ready to join them, but stop when I hear Coach Aldine’s voice.

“…go ahead and get started without me. I’ll be in. Just a second.”

I hear the assistant coaches assent, then the slam of the locker room door.

“Yeah?” Grey asks a moment later, in that crisp professionalism of a man on the phone. “Yes, I understand your concerns completely.”

I stand, holding my breath, hearing the soft, staticky feedback of another person on the line with him. I shouldn’t be standing here, listening in on his conversation, and I know he’d whip my ass if he caught me, but it’s like I’m paralyzed.

“I understand you’re disappointed, but the game isn’t over yet. In fact, I—” Grey lets out a small noise of annoyance, then sighs. “If you can believe it, the team needs me. If you want to talk, it’s better to do it after the game—”

He cuts off again, and I can hear the frustration growing in his voice. “Of course I’ve been keeping an eye on the draft prospects, and you know I’m always open to making the team better. We’re testing the waters.”

Another pause, another sigh.

“He pulled out with the coach. Yeah. She told me this morning. Well—I have a contact with Petrov’s agent. Could get in touch and see if he’s open to moving.”

My heart twists. Petrov. Stand out goalie last year, free agent next season. My heart untwists and starts to hammer.

Grey is replacing me.

Not only am I not great, but suddenly, I’m not even passable. Not worth keeping on the team. Nausea bubbles up inside me, pushing and urgent, and I move as quietly as I can to the bathroom in the hallway, dropping to my knees and vomiting into the toilet violently, heaving hard.

“Shit, Braun,” a voice says from the doorway, when I’m gasping and wiping the back of my hand over my mouth. Grey is standing there, eyes wide, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick, man? I wouldn’t have put you on the ice.”

I stare at him, realization dawning. He thinks I’m sick, and that’s why I’ve been playing like shit. Not the other way around.

“I—”

“Go change,” he says, shaking his head. “Did you get that stomach bug from Phillips? You’re on the bench for the rest of this game. Next time, you tell me when you’re fucked, got it?”

“Got it,” I say, weakly. When he walks away, I slump next to the toilet, sucking in a breath.

Grey thinks this piss poor performance was because I’m sick. It must be a blessing, because it means I have a second chance. That I might be able to turn this around before Petrov skates out onto the rink wearing my number and standing in front of my goal.

For the rest of the game, I drink water and think about how I’m going to convince Dr. Finn Asher to take me back.