Chapter 13
Thirteen
Even the Backup Goalie
Beck
Coach Powers lives in a kickass house at the top of a hill. Not that I expected anything less from an uber-successful coach who also dominated the ice during his years in the big leagues.
Yesterday, he’d texted to say that he’d rather make lunch for us both than eat out.
Cue a fresh wave of panic over what to bring, because my mom taught me to never show up empty handed.
I hope the box of bakery cookies I picked up doesn’t seem too random, in spite of the hour I spent in front of the counter picking them out.
Now here I am, parking my old Jeep on the meticulous gravel driveway to the side of a half-timbered garage. Inside is a gleaming Mercedes, as well as a sporty SUV.
I pat my Jeep on the fender as I leave it behind. “Someday you’ll be a racehorse, too.”
If only. I’m still not sure why I’m here, except to bow down and kiss the ring. And maybe absorb an ounce or two of big-league wisdom.
Oh, and to make a good impression on Coach Powers. If at all possible. Just in case he has a strange desire to promote a socially awkward goalie whose stats have sucked donkey balls for most of the season.
I clearly need a pep talk. Or at least a hug from my favorite bartender. I’m still thinking about that moment in Forest’s entryway…
Focus, James. I knock on a front door so massive that it could be used for an airplane hangar.
A few moments later, the door swings open to reveal Coach Powers. He’s wearing a Cougars track suit and an apron that says I’ll Feed All You Fuckers.
Huh. I guess I didn’t have to sweat over my clothing choices.
“Hey, Beck!” he says with a big grin. “Sorry to drag you all the way up this hill, but I’m doing some meal prep, and I thought we could eat well at the same time I set myself up for a busy week.”
“No problem, Coach. I brought cookies,” I blurt, thrusting the box toward him like I’m passing a live grenade.
“It’s a weird mix, because I couldn’t decide between chocolate chip and those maple ones, and then they had these pistachio things that looked like alien eyeballs, so I just got some of everything. ”
Powers takes the box with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks. Sounds fun. Come on in.”
I follow him through a foyer with ceilings high enough for a giraffe, past framed jerseys and photos that probably tell the story of his career, but I’m too nervous to really look. The house smells amazing—garlic, herbs, something roasting.
“Good drive up?” he asks, leading me into a kitchen that’s roughly the size of my entire house.
“Yeah, fine. My Jeep doesn’t love hills, though. It’s more of a flat-road enthusiast.” Shut up, Beck. “I mean, yes. Good drive.”
Powers laughs, which seems like a positive sign. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a stool at the massive kitchen island. “Beer? Water?”
“Water’s great, thanks.” Last thing I need is to get buzzed and point out that hockey sticks are basically just permission for hockey players to carry weapons in public as long as they’re wearing matching outfits.
He slides a glass of water my way, then returns to chopping vegetables. There’s already something simmering on the stove that looks like sauce, and a pan of what might be lasagna cooling on a rack.
“So, Beck,” he says casually, “first, I want to say congratulations on those back-to-back wins. Sixty-six saves on sixty-seven shots is impressive at any level.”
My stomach flips. “Thanks, Coach.”
“You know why I wanted to meet with you?” He doesn’t look up from his chopping.
“To tell me to stay out of the beer league?” I venture.
He chuckles. “Well, there’s that. Though, I’m more impressed than angry that you shut down the Plague. Those guys have a reputation.”
I relax slightly. “They weren’t nice people.”
“Nope.” Powers stops chopping to look at me. “They’re notorious assholes. And helping out the Stickhandlers was a standup thing to do. It shows character. Not that I want you to do it again.”
“Okay,” I say, genuinely surprised. “Got it.”
Powers moves to the stove and starts stirring something. “But that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because I saw something in your game recently that I didn’t see earlier in the season.”
I blink. “You review Ice Cats games?”
“When I can. You guys are our farm team. Part of my job is tracking who might be ready to move up.” He gives me a pointed look.
My heart rate kicks up. “Even the backup goalie?”
“Especially goalies.” He turns and leans against the counter. “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. Your numbers at the start of the season were concerning. Your confidence seemed shot. But something changed.”
I swallow hard, thinking about a certain bearded bartender who scrambled my brain right around the time my game improved. “I, um, found my footing.”
“Good. Because the Beck James I scouted in college was fearless. He played his own style, didn’t care what anyone thought. That’s the goalie the organization wants to develop.”
I’m temporarily speechless, which might be a first in my life.
“Two things changed last week,” Powers says as he plates up some kind of amazing pasta dish with grilled chicken.
“First, your technical game improved. Your angles, your rebound control—it all tightened up.” He slides the plate in front of me.
“But more importantly, you started playing like you were having fun again.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“Hockey’s a job, sure,” he continues, serving himself. “But the best players, they never lose that joy. That’s what I saw in your last few games—a guy who remembered why he loves stopping pucks.”
My throat tightens, because he’s right. Something did change. And it wasn’t just Forest, though he definitely had a part in it. It was remembering what it felt like to stop pucks for a team that appreciated it. To feel like I belonged somewhere.
“Now,” Powers says, sitting across from me at the counter. “Eat up and tell me what you think about Desjardins’ high glove side. I’ve been trying to get him to fix that release all season.”
“The thing about Desjardins,” I say, relaxing even more, “is that he telegraphs that shot by opening his shoulders too early. It’s like he’s wearing a billboard that says, I’m Going Glove Side, in neon letters.”
Powers laughs and points his fork at me. “That’s exactly what I keep telling him!”
Just like that, we’re talking hockey—real hockey, coach to player. And it hits me that Forest was right. Powers doesn’t care if I’m awkward or weird. He cares if I can stop pucks.
For the next hour, we talk goalies and shooters, systems and strategies. I manage not to say anything about cereal versus soup, or how hockey pads are really just marshmallow armor. I even make Coach Powers laugh a few times on purpose.
“So let’s talk about you for a sec,” Coach says eventually, and my stomach drops.
“Me,” I grunt. “We’ve already been over my stats. What else is there to say?”
He gives me a friendly grin. “Not your stats. You. We need a strategy to even out your performance for the rest of the season. Where do we start?”
Le sigh. “It’s not a matter of discipline. Or will,” I say slowly.
He shakes his head. “I never thought it was. In a young goalie like you, there are two other critical factors—experience and belief in yourself.”
“Experience we can fix,” I mutter under my breath.
He grins again. “Certainly. And there’s a reason why goalies are often the oldest players on the ice. It takes time to internalize the game at its most elite level. Every shot adds data to your supercomputer.”
I nod along, because it’s true. “Every time you level up, there’s work to do.”
“Right, and you’ve already shown us that you’re capable of that. You just need to do it more consistently. Which brings us to our second potential issue—belief in your own success. That can be harder. You have to be able to visualize the game.”
“I can do that,” I insist. “My last goalie coach was great at teaching this, and now I visualize the shot like a champ.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “But you have to visualize yourself, not just the puck. You have to see yourself becoming a seamless part of the game play. And that means being a seamless part of the team.”
Oof. Well good luck with that.
My face must tell a story, because he leans forward. “Beck, I have to ask—is there something going on in the Ice Cats locker room that I should know? Some reason you don’t feel a part of the team?”
I play that question back a couple of times, trying to grasp whatever he’s alluding to. Coach Tanner is great. Everybody knows that. And the locker room is fine, I guess, if you like bad jokes and loud music. That can’t be what Coach is asking me.
And then it clicks. “Are you asking if I’m an outcast because I like both hockey and dick?”
Goddamn it. I need to stop blurting shit, because now he’s laughing. “Maybe. But I might have put it differently.”
“No. Yeah,” I say quickly. “That’s not the issue. The locker room is fine.” Except for that one thing Rigsy said… But no. “I’m the problem. I’m a weirdo.”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “But all goalies are weirdos. I should know. I live with one.”
“Really?” That’s news to me. I flip through my mental Wikipedia entry for Coach Powers and come up empty. I didn’t know he had a wife, although the size of this house sort of suggests that he might.
“Yeah, in fact…” He swivels his head toward the sound of a door closing somewhere nearby. “We’re in the kitchen! Want a plate? I cooked.”
Nobody answers for a few beats, and then I get the shock of my life as Jethro Hale, the winningest goalie in hockey history, strides into the room in athletic shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. He’s red-faced and drenched in sweat. “Hey,” he says, his voice breathy.
“Hey, yourself.” Coach gives him a fond smile. “This is Becker James, puck eater for the Ice Cats. You may have met him before at one of our preseason clinics.”
The legend spares me a glance that registers only a glimmer of familiarity. “Nice to see you again. Oh—cookies!” His attention turns to the counter and the box I brought. He opens it and makes a noise of approval.
“Don’t you want lunch?” Coach asks.
“Sure I do,” he says. “This cookie is my shower snack. Nuts have protein, right?” He grabs a pistachio cookie and winks at Coach Powers. “Back in fifteen. Save me a plate.” He ruffles Coach’s hair and then strides out of the room.
Then he’s gone, and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in, like, a full minute. So I gulp some air. I’m also staring at Clay Powers with amazement. “He’s your…”
Nope. I can’t even say it aloud in case I’m way off base.
“Boyfriend,” Clay says, shrugging. “Or, if we’re talking about kitchen detail, he’s my freeloader.”
“Don’t believe him!” Hale yells from somewhere distant. “Who washes the dishes around here?”
Clay snorts. “Coffee, Beck? I’m having some with one of your cookies.”
“Thank you,” I manage, still recovering from my surprise. The fact that the Stickhandlers have ice time at the Cougars’ practice rink makes more sense to me now, I guess.
Coach Powers gets up to make coffee. “As I was saying…” He grabs two cups off a shelf. “Whatever it is in your life that’s standing between you and more of that greatness you’ve shown us the last couple weeks, let’s figure out what it is. I need a deep bench in Colorado, Beck. Don’t let us down.”
Reeling, I realize that some response is called for. “I’ll try not to,” I murmur, trying not to get distracted by the mental image of Jethro Hale and Clay Powers sharing a house.
And a shower. Possibly at the same time…
Mind. Blown.