Chapter 16
Grant
The Aces have had two wins after three days on the road, and I should feel good about the trip. We’re sitting pretty in the standings, the team is gelling for the most part, and I posted solid numbers in both games.
But all I can think about as I drive home from the airport is that shot in the second period two nights ago. The one that slipped past my glove by maybe two inches. Probably less. It was a perfectly savable shot that I let through because I was a fraction of a second too slow getting my hand up.
Every game has its regrettable plays—the kind that repeat over and over in my mind no matter how hard I try to shut them off—and this one just happens to be my latest obsession.
I know it might not be productive or even healthy for some people to dissect and analyze every angle and every movement to try to figure out exactly what went wrong, but this is how I’ve always operated. This is how I got to the top of my game, and it’s how I manage to stay there.
The puck came from the left wing, and it was a decent shot, but nothing I shouldn’t have handled easily. I was in position. My stance was solid. But something in my timing was off.
It’s the kind of mistake that can haunt me for weeks if I let it. The kind of thing that will eat at me until I prove to myself with my next save that I’m better than that.
My teammates always tell me I’m too hard on myself, but they don’t understand. I’m the goalie. The only one. Every mistake I make is magnified. Every point the other team scores is a personal failure of mine, no matter what the rest of the team did or didn’t do in the lead-up to that moment.
The gate to my neighborhood comes into view, and I punch in the code automatically, barely registering the familiar routine. My mind is still stuck on that replay loop, analyzing and re-analyzing those critical two seconds.
But as I pull into my driveway and see the lights in some of the windows, something unexpected happens.
The mental noise starts to quiet.
It’s subtle at first, just a slight easing of the tension in my shoulders that probably wouldn’t even be noticeable except for the fact that I’m actually feeling lighter and lighter with each step.
For the first time in my life I can feel something I’m not used to experiencing after a road trip.
Peace.
And not just because the house is quiet.
Hell, it’s always quiet. But this place used to feel like an empty shell when I came home.
I treated it as simply another stop on the endless circuit of travel, practice, games, and recovery.
It’s where I eat, sleep, and maintain my body, but not much more than that.
Well, that’s how it used to feel.
With Heather and April staying here, this house feels lived in and warm for a change—it’s a home instead of just a house.
I can see it in the little bit of clutter, like April’s backpack at the foot of the stairs, or the coffee mug on the side table that’s right next to a book Heather has been reading.
Even the small stack of mail Heather left for me on the foyer table makes the whole place feel less like another fancy hotel suite and more like a family home.
Our home.
That thought should bother me. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of compartmentalizing, keeping my focus sharp on the game I love and everything I have to do to be the best. Having two other people in my space should be the ultimate disruption to my routine. I should hate it.
Instead, it’s been just the opposite. For the first time all day, I’m not thinking about that missed save. The endless loop of self-criticism that’s followed me all the way home stopped as soon as I walked through the door.
I put my gear bag away and head into the kitchen. April is sitting at the island with a textbook open in front of her. She’s wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon hockey pucks and helmets, lost in thought with an expression identical to one I’ve seen on her mother’s face a hundred times.
“Hey there,” I say, and she looks up at me with a contagious grin.
“Grant! You’re home!” She bounces a little in her seat and pushes aside her homework. “Mom and I watched your game last night on the big TV, and you were so good! That save you made in the third period, when you had to stretch across the whole goal? That was awesome!”
I’m not usually great with kids. Their rapid-fire enthusiasm and endless energy usually leave me feeling completely out of my depth.
But April isn’t overwhelming. Sure, she’s enthusiastic and her energy is pretty much the opposite of my own quiet, controlled personality, but her excitement about hockey—and my games specifically—is infectious in a way I never would have expected.
And the fact that she’s such a super-fan gives us a built-in topic to talk about anytime.
“You guys have been watching? Really?” I set my keys on the counter and start to grin all over again at the thought of the two of them sitting on the couch and cheering me on from hundreds of miles away.
“Yeah, of course! Well, I missed the first game earlier this week because it was past my bedtime, but Mom told me you won. And last night’s game was so good. All those saves you made in the first period were crazy. I was telling Mom you’re the best goalie in the league, and she agreed.”
The idea that Heather and April see my work as something worth celebrating hits me hard. Knowing that my games have become something they share, something all three of us can have in common, means more than I can put into words.
I try anyway. “I’m glad you’ve both been watching. It’s good to know you’re cheering for us.”
“Are you kidding? We’re your biggest fans. I never thought I’d see my mom get into watching sports, but we’ve turned her into a hockey fan. She’s even started yelling at the TV when someone from the other team gets too close to you.”
April’s enthusiasm is so pure and genuine that I want to keep this conversation going. There’s no way my teammates would believe I’d be standing here and enjoying the fact that I’m shooting the shit with a kid, but here we are.
“I had no idea your mom was getting so into hockey. We’ll have to get her a jersey so she can start collecting signatures like you have with yours.”
“Yeah! That would be so cool. She needs to have more fun. She works hard all the time, just like you do.”
I love the way she talks about her mom, like she’s genuinely proud of her. I just wish Heather was right here next to me, so she could hear it too.
Then again, if Heather was standing here, I’m pretty sure she’d already be directing the conversation back toward April’s forgotten homework.
“Speaking of working hard…” I nod toward the textbook, thankful for the easy segue. “How is the homework going? And how is school, in general, these days?”
It’s like I’ve flipped a switch. Her bright expression immediately dims, and her shoulders slump a little as she looks over at her work and sighs.
“It’s fine. Math isn’t that hard, just boring. And everything else about school is okay, I guess.”
It’s obvious that she isn’t giving me the full story, but I can understand that. Just like I can understand how she obviously doesn’t want to put any extra worry or stress on her mom’s shoulders.
What she may not realize is that Heather has strong shoulders. Damn strong. And I’m here to lighten the load however I can.
“You know,” I say, leaning forward like I’m sharing a secret. “School was hard for me when I was your age too.”
April looks like I’ve just sprouted a second head. “Really? But you’re like… you. You’re good at everything.”
I laugh. “I’m good at hockey, and that’s only after a lifetime of practicing.
But I wasn’t always like this. When I was a kid, I was sick a lot.
I had to spend a lot of time in the hospital, which meant I missed a ton of school.
When I was able to go to class, I felt so different from the other kids.
” I pause for a second as those memories of being isolated and alone come back so vividly that it could’ve happened just yesterday.
“I missed out on a lot of activities and friendships because I was always at doctor’s appointments or too weak to participate in things. ”
“I can’t picture you being sick all the time. You only eat healthy things and you work out for half the day, every day.”
“It wasn’t like having a cold. I had something called aplastic anemia.
It meant my body couldn’t make enough healthy blood cells.
” I try to explain it in terms she’ll understand.
“I was tired all the time, and I got sick really easily. The doctors didn’t think I’d ever be able to play sports or do the kinds of things other kids did. ”
April’s eyes have gone wide. “But you became a hockey player. Like, the best hockey player.”
“It took a long time and a lot of work. But yeah, eventually I got better and stronger.” I lean forward a little so I can look directly into her eyes.
“The point is, feeling different or left out doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.
Sometimes it just means you haven’t found your people yet. ”
April nods, but I can tell the words haven’t really hit home for her. And I know firsthand how hard it is to be nine years old and convinced that your people aren’t out there, or that they don’t exist at all.
“You know what I used to tell myself when I was feeling left out or different? Or when those doctors told me I’d probably never be able to play sports?”
She shakes her head.
“I’d say, ‘Nobody else gets to decide how I feel about myself. That’s my job.’”
The words come so easily, even though I haven’t said them aloud in decades.
“It meant that other kids could be mean or ignore me. It could feel like the whole world was against me, and nobody understood how I felt. But I was the only one who got to decide if I was worth something. And I always decided I was.”
She cocks her head as her smile creeps back in, and for the first time since we started talking about school, she looks genuinely happy. Maybe even hopeful.
“Nobody else gets to decide how I feel about myself,” she repeats, nodding along as she tests the affirmation for herself. “That’s my job.”
“Exactly. And you’re pretty good at your job, if I do say so myself.”
“Mom!” She looks past me toward the kitchen doorway, beaming from ear to ear now. “Did you hear what Grant just told me? Nobody else gets to decide how I feel about myself. That’s my job!”
I turn to see Heather standing there, fresh from the shower if her damp hair and soft pink bathrobe are any indication. From the expression on her face, I’m pretty sure she’s been listening for at least the last few minutes of our conversation.
“That’s really good advice, sweetheart.”
Our eyes meet across the kitchen and there’s so much gratitude there, but also a warmth that makes me want to keep looking at her and never look away.
She moves to stand behind April’s chair and reaches out to smooth her daughter’s hair. “I hope you’re not keeping Grant from getting settled in. He just got home from a long trip.”
“Not at all,” I say, standing up from my own chair. “I was actually thinking I could make dinner for all of us. If you’re hungry, I mean.”
Heather blinks, looking surprised. “You don’t have to do that. I can throw something together for April and myself. You must be exhausted.”
“I want to. Besides, you just organized a successful work event. You deserve to have someone else handle dinner.”
A soft pink color spreads from her neck to her cheeks. “You’re going to spoil me if you keep this up.”
“You deserve to be spoiled.” The words tumble out before I can think to hold them back, but I don’t care. I meant every one.
And now the flush in her cheeks has deepened past that pale pink, but she doesn’t look away. “I bet you say that to all the ladies.”
Her light, teasing tone only makes me want to double down until she understands how serious I am.
“No. Not all the ladies. Just you.”
Her eyes widen, and all I can hear over the deafening silence is the tiny catch in her breath as she looks away.
I never meant to say that out loud, but I have a hard time feeling bad about it. I just don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to follow up on my words.
Which is why the old me—the careful, guarded me—would have kept those thoughts to myself, safely locked up in my head where they belong.
“Right. So, uh, dinner.” I clear my throat and turn to open the fridge, then close it again. “How does spaghetti sound? I think I can manage that without poisoning anyone.”