10. Nick
NICK
My stomach does Olympic-level gymnastics as I watch the game from the bench. Hank is in goal for the first period. Before he puts his helmet on, he mouths “You’re next!” at me and caps it with an enthused grin.
My stomach flips like an Olympic diver but for all the wrong reasons.
Hank is straight. Ex-wife, son, athlete. All straight signposts, especially in a small town like Sourwood. I can’t mistake his sweetness and friendship as flirtation. And I definitely can’t stare into his eyes again like I did in the locker room. I only have so much self-control.
From the jump, the Comebacks are on fire. Des and Tanner fly down the ice, swapping the puck back-and-forth with such synchronicity it’s like they share one brain. Toward the end of the period, Bill slices the puck across the ice right past the goalie.
I gulp back a lump of nerves. The goalie for the Deep Dives, a team made up of scuba instructors, has much more experience than me. If he can’t stop these goals, then I’m going to be useless when I get my turn.
Despite the aforementioned issue of Hank’s straightness, I keep turning to watch him during the game.
For such a teddy bear of a man, his stance in goal is all business.
It’s tough, rugged, focused. My mind goes to places that it shouldn’t.
Like the east wing of Ardenia’s castle during renovation, it’s totally off-limits.
“He’s good,” says Mitch, sitting next to me. The edges of thick beard curls through the faceguard of his helmet. “Hank is like a wall. Nothing gets past. He’s impenetrable.”
Why is it that as soon as I hear the word impenetrable, I think of penetrate? I am a royal, a crown prince, yet my mind can so easily devolve to teenage horndog.
By the end of the second period, we have a comfortable 4-1 lead.
“You ready?” Bill skates up to me.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yeah. You’re going in next period.” Bill clocks the panic on my face. “Unless you want to just observe for this game.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Hank says behind him. He takes off his helmet. The ends of his shaggy hair are tipped with sweat. He turns to me. His red face makes his eyes positively sparkle. “Nick’s up!”
“We sure about this?” I laugh.
“Short memory,” Hank says. “You miss a shot, a play doesn’t go your way, forget about it. Stay in the present. Every few seconds, you have a new chance to be better.”
“Short memory,” I repeat.
Hank is sticking his neck out for me, so the least I can do is not chicken out. Bill is a guy who responds to strength. I’ve met my fair share of them during my royal duties.
I stand up and give Bill a steely, confident nod. “That goal will be better protected than the crown jewels.”
“Speaking of, you’re wearing a cup, right?” Hank asks.
I give him another of my patented steely, confident nods. After the intermission, which I spend closing my eyes and getting in the proverbial zone, I get out onto the ice. I can feel all the spectator eyes on me. Can they sense my nerves?
“Okay, new guy. Show me what you’re made of,” Bill says, skating to the center.
I grip my stick like it’s a flotation device and try not to think about the fact that an entire bench of men is counting on me not to humiliate myself.
First game. No pressure.
I flick my eyes to the bench. Hank nods at me. I’m not going to let him down. I will be the player he believes in.
Griffin and Mitch skate up to the goal.
“Mitch and I are going to be extra heavy on D. We’re not going to let anything get past us if we can help it.”
“We got you covered,” Mitch says. He holds out his fist. I pound it, then pound Griffin’s. My heart fills with unexpected glee. I’m part of a team! A team with guys who could conceivably be called my buds!
The ref drops the puck, record-scratching me right into the game. My heart slams against my ribs.
Mitch and Griffin are true to their word at first. They’re hustling to get the puck down the ice. But no fortress is impenetrable. (Penetrate… Stop that!) The first shot comes in soft—almost lazy. A warm-up shot. The kind any goalie with a pulse should stop.
I…do not stop it. I’m two seconds late. It slides right between my pads and kisses the back of the net.
Goal horn. Red light. My soul leaves my body.
“Oh my God,” I whisper inside my helmet. “Oh my God, Nicholas.”
Someone on the Deep Dives whoops. I stare at the ice, convinced it has personally betrayed me.
“Shake it off, Nick,” Bill yells to me. He slaps his helmet, gesturing that I maintain my focus.
Shake it off. Shake it off.
Hank’s voice echoes in my head. Short memory.
I straighten. Roll my shoulders. Lock in.
The next few minutes are a cacophony of pucks flying, sticks clashing, and men yelling words I’m fairly sure aren’t suitable for royal ears. I manage a couple decent saves. One off the blocker. One off my chest. Nothing fancy, but solid.
Then comes the moment I’ve been practicing for.
Breakaway. Guy charging straight at me. Butterfly time.
I drop clean and spread my knees. The pads seal the ice.
And the puck slides right past me. Again.
Goal.
I want to crawl into the net and pretend I live there now. The score is 4-3. One more goal, and I will officially have given up our lead.
Bill skates up to me.
“You good?” he asks.
“If you want to bench me, I get it.”
“Listen, if I didn’t think you could handle this, I wouldn’t have let you suit up, much less tend goal. We win as a team. We lose as a team. No matter what, we’re all in this together.” He gives my pads a supportive punch, then rushes back to the center for the next puck drop.
I close my eyes to recenter myself, do a quick breathing exercise.
“STAY IN! YOU’VE GOT THIS!”
Hank stands from the bench, eyes locked on me.
I blink.
Me? Got this?
He points at me. “SHORT MEMORY, NICK!”
My chest tightens. He believes in me. For some unhinged reason, he genuinely believes I can do this. His passion and confidence barrel across the ice and snap right into my chest.
Okay. Fine. Let’s do this.
The rest of the game blurs. Griffin and Mitch are an unscalable wall of defense.
The Deep Dives have held off our offense’s advances, too, so the score is still 4-3 heading into the final minute.
My legs feel like boiled noodles. The puck comes down on a rush, three of them charging, two of us scrambling.
The seconds flash by like a bunch of photographs being snapped in quick succession.
Shot from the blue line—blocked.
Rebound.
Another shot—pad save.
Loose puck in front. Time slows. I dive—full body, no dignity—stretching my stick like Excalibur.
The puck hits it and skitters wide. The horn sounds. Game over. We win.
For a second, I just lie there, sprawled on the ice, staring at the ceiling like I’ve just survived a plane crash.
The team crashes around me, shouting, smacking my helmet, laughing. Then someone grabs my jersey and hauls me upright.
Hank.
He’s grinning like I just scored the winning goal myself.
“You did it!” He says, taking off my helmet, our sweaty heads dangerously close. I can smell his woodsy, sweaty scent through the cold ice.
In that moment, I am glad Hank and I became friends, yet I want to do is kiss my friend in pure, unadulterated glee.
Instead, I laugh—loud, wild, unstoppable.
Me. Crown prince. Goalie. Game winner.
Goalies may have a short memory, but I will remember this moment forever.