Page 82 of Goalie Interference

I side-eye Danton. “He is not my boy.”

“Not yet he’s not,” he says under his breath.

I turn my attention to the TV closest to our booth and strain my ears over the noise of the bar to listen.

Warmups are happening on the ice right now. In the background I can make out each of the Blizzards players who are milling around on the ice doing stretches and edgework, and shooting the occasional puck into the net. Around the glass are fans trying to get the players’ attention. I’m pleased to see that there are still some kids in Chicago trying to get a puck from Connor. But mixed among them are some signs held by adults calling him a traitor. In the background I can hear them booing.

It’s a shame, but not entirely unexpected.

“If Connor Kennedy thought he was going to get a warm welcome here tonight in Chicago, he was wrong,” one of the broadcasters says as the camera switches to show a man and a woman in the booth.

“Chicago desperately needs a win tonight,” the female broadcaster says. “The fans here are feeling that pressure.”

“The Blizzards need one, too,” the male says. “They’re still a few points out of the playoffs in a cup-defending season.”

“Don’t ever doubt the Blizzards. They could still pull it off. Especially if they get a few things to go their way over the second half of the season.”

“A few things like Ander Bouchard finding his game again. Goaltending has been the Blizzards’ biggest issue this season.”

“With Kennedy and Tavish upfront, scoring isn’t a problem for them, that’s for sure.”

“They just need to keep the puck out of the back of their own net.”

The screen shows Ander. He’s at the glass, throwing a puck over it for his parents.

“Who the fuck are these assholes?” Brandon asks.

“They’re called broadcasters,” Ryan says, pulling Brandon in closer. He ruffles his hair with his hand.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Brandon glares up at him but makes no effort to move.

“They are assholes,” I say, my lips pressed tight together. I get it. A big part of their job is to talk about the way we play. But hearing them talk about Ander like that makes my blood boil. Thankfully Ander didn’t hear all that. And I hope that he never does. That type of criticism is the last thing he needs.

“If they’re calling our game tomorrow, I’m going to send a slap shot right at them,” Brandon says.

“Me too,” I say.

“That is my brother-in-law,” Ryan says. “I will defend his honor.”

“As your linemate, you know I’m in,” O’Shea says.

Danton holds up his beer again. “Ahh, yes! Another round of team bonding. Just what we need.” He brings his beer to his mouth and chugs what’s left of it down.

Ander

The Broad Wings are out for blood tonight and the fans are ravenous for it. They’re loud, cheering every time one of their players knocks Connor to the ice. Gavin is doing a damn good job of playing bodyguard, though. He’s leveled at least six of Chicago’s players by my count already and we’re only eight minutes into the first period.

If everyone makes it to the end of this game, it’s gonna be a miracle.

Facing my net, I take a deep breath, then tap my posts and crossbar with my stick. A goalie’s sign of the cross. The last thing we need is an injury. But as I turn back around to face center ice again, I lock eyes with Gavin. Our team grizzly bear, ready to protect what’s his. Ready to shut everyone up who is beginning to doubt our ability to make it to the post season.

If only he could shut up the self-doubt that’s trying to creep into my mind. Us making the post season would be a foregone conclusion if it wasn’t for me.

But now, as the Broad Wings get the puck into our zone, I have another opportunity to prove myself. To show everyone that I still have what it takes.

Lars, their top center, is skating aggressively towards me and my net.

I come out towards the top of my crease, baiting him. Taunting him. Making him think he has me right where he wants me.