O Goalie Night (The Ottawa Otters #1)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

FOSTER

“ H ang a picture on my boy cause he’s a fucking wall!” Ben shouts, slapping my pads as he circles my net.

I stand in the crease, my eyes scanning the ice, taking in every detail. The roar of the crowd is a distant hum, my focus entirely on the game unfolding before me. The Habs have been relentless tonight, but I'm in the zone. Unbeatable.

I’m not normally this sure of myself, but since my skate with Beth this morning I’ve been riding a high like never before. Listening to her as she opened up to me and then watching her face her fears was inspiring. I can’t remember the last time I felt that fucking good.

And it hasn’t worn off. I walked into the arena feeling like I could take on Goliath and for the first two thirds of this game, that’s exactly how I’ve been playing.

We’re up by two goals eight minutes into the third period. When the puck drops the action is immediate. Players crash into each other, sticks clashing, the sounds echoing in the rink. I track the puck as it moves swiftly between skaters. The defence is holding strong, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they break through.

A forward from the other team intercepts a pass at the far blueline, streaking down the ice, the puck dancing on his stick. I crouch lower, my eyes locked onto him. He dekes left, then right, trying to throw me off. But I stay with him, reading his movements, anticipating his shot.

Not today, asshole.

He shoots. I react instinctively, dropping into a butterfly stance, my pads meeting the ice. The puck slams into my right pad, and I quickly cover it with my glove before he can attempt a rebound. The whistle blows, and I rise, preparing for the faceoff to my right as the crowd cheers. I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction, but there’s no time to dwell.

The game isn’t over yet.

Another faceoff, this time to my left. The Habs control the puck and set up in our zone. I stay sharp, my eyes darting between the puck carrier and the left wing waiting at the sideboard. A defenseman winds up for a slapshot from the point. I prepare myself, tracking the puck as it rockets toward me. I catch it cleanly in my glove, feeling the satisfying thud. I hold it high for a second, letting everyone know I’ve got it under control.

The game continues, a blur of fast-paced action. My teammates battle hard and I do my part, stopping shot after shot. There’s a breakaway, a two-on-one, and a couple of scrambles in front of the net, but I stay alert, turning everything away.

With the clock ticking down, the tension rises. I know they’re going to throw everything they have at us. They pull their goalie for an extra skater and the pressure mounts. The puck is everywhere, players crashing the net, sticks and skates tangled.

A shot from the point is deflected, changing direction at the last second. I push off my right skate, sliding across the crease, my glove hand flashing out. I feel the puck hit my glove, and I clamp down on it, freezing play. The roar of approval from the crowd is deafening, but I stay focused, not ready to celebrate yet.

The final seconds tick away, and with one last desperate attempt, the opposing team sends a flurry of shots my way. I block and deflect, my reflexes sharp, my mind clear. The buzzer sounds, and the game is over. We’ve won.

My teammates rush over, slapping my helmet, congratulating me. I pull off my mask, my breath coming in heavy puffs, sweat dripping down my face. The crowd is on their feet, cheering, and I allow myself a moment to soak it all in.

I am a fucking wall.

After a long celebratory shower, I strut into the locker room feeling invincible. The moment I’ve cleared the doorway, music starts to blare and a chorus of whoops echo in the room.

I fight a grin as my teammates, all in various states of dress, gyrate to “Whatta Man.” This haphazard dance party seems to be in my honour and if I’m not careful, I’ll wind up getting a lap dance from Austin.

Again.

“Hear ye, hear ye, motherfuckers!” A shirtless Ben jumps onto a bench and waits for everyone to quiet down before continuing. “Tonight, we toast to not only our fourth win in a row, but our second shutout in just eight days thanks to this beautiful monster.”

Several teammates reach over to pat me on my bare shoulders and Will hands me a tall boy that I accept even though I know I won’t drink it. Who needs alcohol when you’re drunk on life?

While I genuinely appreciate the recognition of my efforts, I’m ready to throw some clothes on and get home.

Ben raises his beer can and continues, “To quote a great philosopher, ‘The more you celebrate your life, the more in life there is to celebrate.’”

I eye him, sceptically. “What philosopher said that?”

“Oprah,” he answers solemnly, causing the room to break out in laughter.

“Fuck, Michaels,” Austin howls. “Read a lot of Oprah, do you?”

“Nah. Your mom talks about her a lot after we fuck and that quote just stuck with me. But this isn’t about me and Austin’s surprisingly flexible mother. This is about celebrating our team, as a team. Gentleman, we’re going out.”

Ah, Christ no.

Every other person in the room thinks it's a great idea, though. The music comes back on and the guys continue getting dressed as I stand here in my towel with an unopened beer and a bad feeling.

Ben hops off the bench and heads straight for me. “Don’t try to get out of this, man. We’re overdue for a night out. I need this.”

He’s not wrong. We haven’t gone out as a team in a while, but it doesn’t make it any more appealing, especially when I had a very different evening in mind. And what does he mean that he needs this?

“Besides, what else are you going to do?” he asks, walking away.

Go home to your sister.

I told Beth I’d be home right after the game and after what she said earlier about missing her family, I don’t really want to tell her I’m ditching her to go drinking with her brother. Not that I’d be drinking. I haven’t gotten drunk in ten years. Watching your big brother descend into alcoholism really takes away the appeal.

Hurriedly, I throw on a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of jeans, all the while trying to brainstorm solutions to this unexpected turn of events.

An idea comes to me, both terrible and brilliant. Fuck it.

“Hey,” I approach Ben as he’s putting on deodorant at his locker and get right to the point. “I think you should invite Beth tonight.”

He stares at me like I’ve sprouted a new head and started speaking with a German accent. “You want me to invite my baby sister out to party with a bunch of horned-up hockey players? Are you serious?”

I roll my eyes. “You know no one will actually try anything with her.” Not if they don’t want to die a slow and painful death at my hands, that is.

“You don’t think so?”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Would you actually fuck Austin’s mom?”

“Fair enough. ”

“Look, I don’t want to overstep, but I think Beth’s pretty homesick.”

“Really?” There’s genuine concern on his face. “She seemed fine the last time I saw her.”

I don’t point out that he hasn’t seen her in almost two weeks. “I mean, it makes sense. It’s her first time being away from your family and it’s so close to Christmas.”

“I wish she’d have told me. I would have flown her home for the weekend.”

Could he be any more obtuse?

“She doesn’t need to go home every time she’s lonely, man. Especially not when she has family right here .”

I can see the actual moment my words sink into his thick skull. His eyes widen as he asks, “Am I the asshole?”

It’s hard to keep a straight face because, honestly? Sometimes. Ben is a good guy. He’s the first to step up when the team needs a volunteer for a children’s charity event, never hesitating to give his time or energy. Whether he’s signing autographs at a local school or helping a teammate move, he always shows up for those around him when asked. But sometimes people don’t come out and ask for help.

“Nah, you’ve just had a lot going on lately.” No need to hurt his feelings.

“I’m going to call her right now and invite her to the club,” he says, reaching for his phone. Looking at the screen, he pauses before saying. “Shit. Valentina is calling. Can you call Beth for me?”

One step forward, two steps back.

“Sure.”

“Thanks, Fozz,” he says, already walking away. “I really appreciate you looking out for her. ”

Grabbing my coat from my locker, I slip out of the room without ceremony. It’s way too loud to make a phone call there and I can’t take two steps without someone congratulating me.

When I finally make it to my car I fish out my phone and bring up Beth’s number. She picks up on the second ring.

“...hello?” The tremble in her voice stabs me through the heart.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m…fine…” she sobs on the other end.

I run my hand through my hair and grab my keys, ready to floor it all the way home. “Beth, you clearly aren’t. Please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

My mind races like a greyhound on speed as I come up with plausible scenarios, each more terrible than the last. Did she fall? Break something? Did someone hurt her? I’ll fucking kill them.

“This happens every time.” Her voice is so heartbreakingly sad, I feel like I’m being pulled apart.

“What happened, Beth? Tell me what’s happening?”

“He just signed to the little Deaf girl.”

What?

“I don’t know what that means.” Who the hell is she talking about?

“In Miracle On 34th Street ,” she sniffs. Her breathing has slowed and she’s easier to understand. “Santa Claus signs to the little Deaf girl. It makes me ugly cry everytime.”

A movie. She’s crying over a Christmas movie. I’m so relieved that she’s okay, I can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Are you laughing at me?” She sounds offended, but I’d rather her mad than sad any day .

“I’m sorry,” I manage to get out between chuckles. “I just thought it was something serious. Why do you keep watching a movie that makes you cry?”

“Because it makes me happy,” she snaps back.

Clearly.

“Well, if you need a break from…being so happy, I have a proposition for you.”