Page 38 of Off the Post

Scrolling back through my texts, I find a message from Tuesday that’s marked Read that I never did anything with.

Tanner: My house Sat. 12:30. BBQ and pool party. Bring a date. You need to get laid.

Now I remember why I never replied. The only woman I’d consider asking to come as my date is Ali. His sister. Probably not the wisest decision to bring my teammate’s sister to his own party.

Then again, Ali mentioned she’s living with him temporarily, so technically, we could hang out and have fun at the party without it looking like a date since I’d be showing up alone.

Feeling good about this decision, I type out my response.

Me: Ja. I got his invite but forgot about it.

Me: If you’ll be there, I’m in.

Me: I really want to hang with you again, too.

Me: But maybe we should keep things low-key around Rossy. About our date.

Shit. As I reread what I just sent, it sounds like I want to keep her my dirty little secret. That’s not at all what I want.

Now I’m getting all spun up with panic that she’ll take it the wrong way. I start typing out an apology when I see the three dots appear. The minute it pops up, I skim her response and slump in my seat with a sigh of relief.

Ali: Oh, for real. Tanner is a nosy lil bitch and very overprotective.

Ali: I don’t need him all up in my biz.

She adds a winky face emoji, and a whoosh of air bursts from the depths of my lungs and laughter bubbles inside my chest.

And then something smacks me right upside the head.

Ali does this to me.

She makes me feel this way, all light and airy. She gets me, and there’s no better feeling in the world than to be able to let your guard down around someone else. Ali makes it easy for me to do so.

Her magic casts a spell over me, making me comfortable in her presence. I never feel the need to protect or hide myself.

My anxiety-induced tics are relatively easy to hide when I’m on the ice. I continuously move around in the net in particular patterns, and goaltenders are notorious for our routines and rituals.

Outside of the rink and locker room, however, I’ve kept to myself, which only adds to my “lone wolf” mystique. But I’ve done it out of necessity. It’s only when I’m in situations where my anxiety grows too big and I’m overly stimulated in environments with too many distractions that I become overwhelmed, and the last thing I want is to be ridiculed for it.

My parents were great. When they were alive, they helped me manage my anxiety and overly obsessive tendencies and loved me through it all. Their loss is an acute pain that I still feel every day, just like the loss of my brother. Everyone who took care of me and loved me as I am are gone. Tragically in both instances.

And all of it is my fault.

My parents had been driving home from Salzburg, where I’d played in a weekend tournament. My team took home the championship prize, and Mutti and Vati had stayed late so they could join in the team celebrations.

Blizzard conditions forced them off the road, sending them over a steep mountainside and into a ravine. Their car hit a tree and they both died on impact.

My fault. My fault. My fault.

My brother tried to convince me otherwise, but he should’ve saved his breath. They were on that road at that time because of me and he couldn’t dispute that. The irony is that he died from a similar tragedy.

Günther had invited me to participate in the climb with him and his buddy, but due to the timing and circumstances with my shiny new NHL contract, I remained in Canada.

And I will live with that guilt until the day I die.

I’ve become good at living with the shame of my selfish actions. At least I’ve been able to bottle up my anger and self-loathing and infuse it into my dedicated work ethic between the pipes.

The drawback is that shame feeds like a hungry monster, consuming my personal life, leaving me with only the crumbs.