7. Shay
SHAY
My therapist is once again doing her best to keep her friendly thoughts inside of her head, but we’ve been seeing each other for long enough that I can tell when the professional version of her and the friend version of her are battling one another, even through the screen.
I just got done listing off the recent craziness in my life including the new job offer I got with the Nighthawks, about the freak-out I had in the equipment room while I rage-sang “Hollaback Girl” before one of my players held me, how I was still crying and my voice was croaky when I told Andy that I was done, and how I went home after and stayed in bed, aside from taking Kyle outside.
I can practically predict her responses, hearing them in her voice in my head.
The professional version would sound like this: I’m glad to hear you’re facing your fears and getting back in the rink.
However, I think next time you’re confronted with panic like that, you ground yourself first, remember why you’re there and what you’re capable of, calm down, and then decide If you’re going to take the job or not.
The friend version would go something like this: Firstly, I’m proud of you for going in there. Secondly, was the player cute? Thirdly, call Andy back because you’re going back to that arena. You were born for this, Shay.
The real-life response?
“Shay, I don’t know what to say.” She pauses.
“That wasn’t either of my options …” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
Rubbing my eyes harder than I should, I sigh, then chuckle. “I imagined your responses in my head, and that was neither of them.”
Amusement drifts across her lips. “And they are?”
I tell her the made-up versions, and she listens intently before responding, “Which version do you prefer?”
“They’re the same but in different formats, minus the cute part.” I laugh, tipping my head back and realizing how ridiculous this whole side quest has gotten. “I don’t know how I feel about everything.”
“You do know. Process it and tell me,” she pushes me.
I groan, feeling the lump in my chest grow bigger at the emotion she’s making me face head-on. “I felt …” I replay my walk toward the ice, the panic that took over me, and the way I felt so incredibly out of control. I hadn’t felt that intensely in a long time.
But then I remember the first moment I saw the ice, the glittering sheen, the possibilities of a blank sheet waiting to be carved up. It was so beautiful, like reuniting with an old friend. I wanted to hug it, to flatten my body on it and feel the cold overtake me.
It went south after that and fast. The first sound of a skate blade and metallic clicking sent me so far over the edge that I was worried I’d never come back and be stuck there alone forever. But then my isolation ended when Matt found me.
He held me close until the frustration I had for myself turned into curiosity for my savior. He restarted my nervous system at the center, surrounding me with calm and stability until I regulated.
I don’t know how long it would’ve taken me to pull myself out of that if he hadn’t found me. Probably until I reached complete exhaustion.
His blue eyes flash in my mind, the look in them still surprising me.
There was no judgment or confusion. It’s like he knew exactly what I was going through without a single word exchanged.
It was so comforting but equally terrifying.
In that moment, I knew he had some demons of his own he had battled—or still is. To be determined.
Not determined because I’m not his coach or his friend.
“Shay?” My therapist calls my name, and I quickly shake away my stupor.
“Sorry.” I stammer, inhaling and exhaling slowly and gathering my thoughts. “I hated being there at first, being surrounded by the scent of the arena.” The rubber mats. Faint exhaust odor.
“Seeing the ice again was …” I stumble, searching for the perfect word.
“Like coming home.” My eyebrows furrow. “But then my stupid mind had to ruin that moment when it overreacted to the sound of blades on the ice. It was embarrassing, freaking out over that. A sound I had heard a thousand times over.”
“But not since your accident,” she adds. “And after that?”
“I closed myself in a private room and sang my comfort song. At some point, Matt found me. I didn’t hear him come in.
I didn’t notice him at all until I realized he was holding and rocking me while I calmed down.
” My words are too fast, scattered, and breathy.
“He didn’t make a big deal of it. He just talked to me afterward, telling me things he probably thought I wanted to hear. ”
“Like what?”
“How I’m a badass goalie. Was. How the Nighthawks would be lucky to have me.” I sigh, my shoulders dropping as I avoid looking at the screen, letting my gaze fall to Kyle lying in his dog bed in the living room, sound asleep.
“You don’t think he might have meant it when he said that to you?” she asks as if that’s such an easy alternative. “You are a badass goalie. And the Nighthawks would be lucky to have you.”
I try to stop it before it happens, but it’s too late. My eyes are already rolling.
“Sticky note,” she orders me, and I don’t have to look at the screen to see her smile. I can hear it in the tone of her voice. “Every day for the next month.”
My eyes bulge, and my jaw falls open. “What? You’ve never made me fill out a note more than once a week.”
She shrugs. “Clearly, this is one you’re having extra difficulty accepting, so it requires extra time.”
I don’t know what to say. She’s not wrong. I don’t believe it. My days as a badass goalie ended that fateful game on the ice. And so far, I think the Nighthawks are far better off without me.
“Do you ever want to see the ice again?” she asks. “Up close and personal.”
I know my answer, even if I don’t want to say it, so instead, I nod.
“Do you remember when we first started sessions and you told me you’d do whatever I said it took to get back to normal?”
“That was a much different version of me,” I groan, lying.
“She’s still in there.” Sitting up, she sets her notepad and pen down. “Your homework—remember, you said you’d do anything I said—is to call your friend back and tell him you want the job.”
Anxiety immediately floods my system. “I-I can’t.”
“You can,” she assures me, which does absolutely nothing.
“Take it slow. Stay in the stands. Work your way into the tunnel, then closer to the bench. You can do this, Shay. And I know how badly you want it. I could see the spark in your eyes when you were describing the ice. You miss it like it’s a part of you, and it is.
It always will be.” She takes a breath. “You’ve got this. I promise you.”
This is dumb, a horrible decision for both me and for the team because there’s no way I’m going to be adding anything useful to the organization while I’m working through my own damn trauma.
Biting down on my bottom lip, probably too hard, I slowly nod, accepting my fate. “Okay.”
“I was so excited when you called, Shay. I knew you would. It’s going to be great,” Andy tells me as we board the plane to my first away game.
I was nervous to be restarting this journey in my own arena, but apparently, we’re going to start it again in Ottawa for game one of round one in the Stanley Cup playoffs.
Andy continues, “I know you’re nervous, and you absolutely take it at your own pace. We’ve got a box where a couple of our injured players and some family will be. You are welcome to take notes and watch from there. I’d love to get your point of view on MacArthur’s game play.”
Nodding as he talks, I feel excitement thrum through me. “That sounds perfect actually.”
“Good.” He smiles, his chin tipping up with pride. “Come on. You’re next to me.”
I walk up the airstairs with him and step onto the jet, following him down the walkway. The coaches and staff are sitting up front, the players toward the back. My eyes are glued to Andy’s back, doing everything possible not to glance toward the players.
But then I feel eyes on me, and my reaction happens before I can stop it. My eyes flick up, immediately locking with Matt’s, as if they knew exactly where to go, drawn to his like a magnet.
We haven’t spoken since he found me having a panic attack. He could make this super uncomfortable and awkward. Since that encounter, he could’ve decided that I was the biggest weirdo he’d ever met and he never wanted to talk to me again.
But instead, the corners of his lips tip up, the comforting and calming blues of his eyes softening, like a hug. And with the slightest movement, he nods at me.
For some reason, it makes my heart leap in my chest, and I beam with pride. My spine straightens, and I hold my head higher.
I know I don’t need anyone’s opinion to give me this much strength and reassurance, but it still makes a difference nonetheless. He's someone who knows how hard I’ve worked, and who has seen me in a moment of weakness. He believes in me, and, fuck, that counts for something.
Andy and I find our seats—very comfortable and roomy seats, might I add. Thankfully, fear of flying isn’t as debilitating to me as the flat, frozen ground, so I quickly settle in.
Within a few minutes, I’m fighting sleep. It’s not my fault. It’s four thirty in the morning, and half of the jet is already sound asleep. Not a minute later, I have my neck pillow snug around my neck, and I pass out in my seat.
Settling into a high seat in the suite that overlooks the ice, I set my notebook and pen down after taking notes. Andy offered me a Nighthawks laptop to use, but it’s a lot harder for me to type nowadays than it is to just write with my right hand.
My heart is hammering in my chest, but I’m forcing myself to take controlled breaths, keeping my panic at bay as I try to stay present, processing everything in real time rather than letting it build up.
It’s fine. I’m doing great.
I look way too good to have my makeup run and soak my suit in tears. Not this time.
Besides, I’m not even going to be near the ice tonight, which is going to help with my anxiety tenfold. I’m nice and safe and secure up here, far, far away from the chaos down below.
The first period is about to start, anthems and introductions already done.
While I don’t quite know exactly what I’m looking for, I know it’ll stand out.
Dropping position too quickly, not reading players right, et cetera.
Although, from the footage I saw of the last game, I can’t imagine I’m going to help Matt much at all.
“Holy shit,” a voice says just left of me, a few stools down, loud and clear.
I don’t think they’re talking to me, so I keep my eyes on the ref who’s setting up for puck drop.
“You’re Shay Rooney,” the same voice says, and my breath leaves me instantly, expelling with my silent sigh. “Isaac, come here.”
I can’t avoid this. There’s no point. Especially if they’re some of the injured players. As I turn my head, I immediately recognize them from the roster and injured reserve list.
Isaac Locke is a forward, healing from severely bruised ribs, expected to be back in the next game. And Javier Russo is a defenseman with a fractured distal radius. He’ll be spending a lot more time healing before he’s back.
Smile. You probably look annoyed … which you are because your name always comes with predetermined follow-up thoughts and questions, especially in this industry.
“Hey, yeah. I’m Shay.” I nod, hearing sticks slap the ice.
Their eyes light up, and Isaac smiles. “It’s sick, meeting you. What are …” He glances around, his lips sealing shut and reopening, as if he remembers where we are. “What are you doing here?”
Having an existential crisis?
“I’m, uhh …” I swallow. “I’m a new goalie coach. I’m just taking notes for tonight, so they let me sit up here instead of trying to balance a notebook against the tunnel wall.”
Javier chuckles. “Makes sense. That’s awesome though. I’m sure Matty and Huang are stoked.”
I nod and smile, trying to decide if they’re being smart-asses or being genuine. “Thanks.”
“I’m Javier. This is Isaac. We’re big fans.” He pauses. “We were actually, umm … at the game …” He trails off.
I don’t need him to finish. I already know what he’s going to say. What I don’t know is what the hell he thinks I’m supposed to say.
Oh fun. What a night.
That must’ve been so entertaining.
Me too.
Honestly, what does he possibly expect from my response? Anger spikes inside me, my go-to shield.
Yeah, it must’ve been nice to be an onlooker and not the one painting the ice red. Glad you still have full use of both your arms.
“It’s impressive that you’re here. A fucking miracle,” Isaac says, filling in the silence since I apparently took too long.
A miracle. Yeah, it’s a miracle I didn’t die on the ice. A miracle I can’t squeeze my shampoo bottle with my hand. A miracle I’m now a coach when I should still be playing. Such a goddamn miracle—
Shay, stop it.
Forcefully, I take a deep breath in and slowly expel it, trying to grab hold of the thousand whipping thoughts and emotions tornadoing inside of me.
They’re just trying to make conversation, not mock you. Relax.
“It’s been a journey.” I force the words out, trying to be less bitchy than my inner monologue sounds. “I appreciate it.”
Their faces drop, frowning right before they burst into laughter, pointing and tearing me down to pieces.
Shay, stop overreacting. That didn’t happen.
They nod, offering me kind smiles, and I turn away a second later and focus on the game that I’ve already missed too much of.
The Penguins have possession in our zone. Matt is in position, blocker and glove at the ready. He deflects an easy shot, then quickly stops the redirect, holding onto the puck until the ref blows the whistle.
They reset, and play starts again. Most people are probably following the puck, and I glance over at it often, but my main focus is on Matt.
He wants to win—the whole team does—and if there’s a small chance I can offer any help at all, I’m going to try my hardest. I’m going to study his game. Every shift, every move he makes.
I have knowledge, and I have a great eye for the game. I’ve always been complimented on that. Time to put it to use again.
By the time the first period is over, my first page is nearly full of notes. I note the difference in positions he greeted each player with. In the way he shifted his body to shots and plays.
I’ve come to one conclusion. He’s a perfect goalie, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do for him.
But when we get into the second period, I finally find one tiny mistake.
He’s not closing his edge out fully on shots to his left, leaving a gap that, eventually, the right player is going to take advantage of.
A spark, the tiniest burst of energy, ignites inside of me, and tears nearly well in my eyes. I haven’t felt that feeling for a long time. Maybe, just maybe, I can get a piece of myself back through this—and through Matt, a part of my spirit that I thought was gone forever.