Page 2 of The Goalie

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do.”

I bit my bottom lip. “Okay,” I said, dropping my voice even though there wasn’t anyone around. “I’ll tell you. But you have to come somewhere more secluded.”

“And why is that?” she asked, arching a brow even higher than her mask.

I smirked again. “It’s easier if I show you,” I said.

She pressed her lips together, as though she were debating whether or not to trust me. “Is this where you kill me?” she asked.

I chuckled, despite myself. I expected questions, sure, but I hadn’t expected her to accuse me of murder. My eyes traced her features, trying to find out if she was serious. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t tell. Which was strange, because I prided myself on being able to figure things out, read people and things they otherwise would want kept under wraps, quite well.

I didn’t have many things I was good at. I wasn’t particularly fond of school—especially getting a higher education. Getting drafted to the NHL had been my only goal in life since I was eight years old. I worked harder than anyone I knew—even talented skaters who were being looked at by agents and recruiters since bantam. As such, I did manage to get drafted, and more than that, I found a place on my team rather quickly. I had been with Houston my whole career and didn’t want to move if I could help it. It was a rare thing for a goalie to end his career with the same team that drafted him, but I knew if I worked hard enough, if I didn’t give management a reason to get rid of me, they wouldn’t.

But it wasn’t just the physical aspect of the game I worked on. Hockey was just as mental as it was physical. I made sure to read as much as I could about deception, and body language. I watched videos of each team we were scheduled to play in order to pick up tells and get familiar with preferred styles of shooting. Reading players was something I was nearly as good at as actually playing.

And yet, as I looked at this beautiful stranger, I could not read her. It bothered me. Not because I felt compelled to read everyone or because my pride was wounded that I finally found someone difficult to predict. But it reminded me that I still had a lot of work I needed to do. It reminded me that as good as I was, I could still be better.

“I’m just kidding.” She reached out and touched my forearm.

The move was startingly familiar, but I couldn’t place why. I knew someone who did the same thing, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember who she was.

Fucking concussion.

My third year in the league, a player—Robbie Whittle—barreled into me during a breakaway. His shot went wide. Instead of stopping and changing direction, he crashed into me. I snapped back, my head hit the bar of the net, and it knocked me out for three minutes. I was out the rest of the season.

Being a goalie meant there was always a risk that I would be injured, sometimes more than my fellow players. It wasn’t like I put myself in danger every night, but when I had rubber pucks flying at me at up to eighty—sometimes ninety—miles per hour, and my job was to position myself in front of them so they wouldn’t hit the net, I was bound to be injured.

Ironically, I rarely got hurt because of a hard puck or a shot that hit a spot not covered by my thick padding. If anything, I might miss a game because I pulled my groin by stretching too fast too far in order to make a save. I always did my best to keep in shape, to keep flexible, so injuries with me were rare. But that concussion kicked my ass.

Never again, I promised myself.

Though, even years later, I still felt the effects it left on me.

“You okay?”

The soft, sweet voice broke me out of my thoughts.

I shook my head and offered her what I hoped was a charming smile. Considering I wasn’t known for my charm, I wasn’t able to figure out if it had the intended effect. As long as it didn’t come across like I was grimacing.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I led her down the secluded hallway. A light buzzed overhead, flickering. I made a note to tell Lucy she had a couple of bulbs to change.

It actually seemed eerie. Our footsteps didn’t echo, thankfully, given that we were walking on carpet, but it was quiet. This stranger didn’t seem scared at all that I was leading her away from the crowd. I wasn’t sure if she was just incredibly trusting or incredibly stupid.

Or maybe she knows exactly who you are, a voice in my head pointed out.

That sounded reasonable. If she did, I appreciated that she played ignorant.

I knew a bunch of my teammates liked when women threw themselves around, hoping for attention, flattering them and stroking their egos. It always came across as false to me, which was why I avoided that altogether. I didn’t need some heavily made-up skank who wanted to have a story for the rest of her life tell me I was a good goalie. I already knew that.

I liked a challenge. I liked the chase. I liked when I couldn’t predict what was going to happen.

I didn’t know if this woman was special. I knew I wanted to fuck her. I knew there was something about her that I was drawn to. Other than that, I knew nothing.

When we reached the locker room, I opened the door and held it.