Page 112 of Goalie Interference

Under the table, I press my thigh against his. He presses his back.

“How did the two of you develop a relationship with how little time there is to see each other during the season?”

“It’s easy to find time when you want to,” Ander says.

“Like traveling to see him in Toronto when you should have been in Buffalo?”

“It was a night off,” Ander says. “I’m free to do as I please when there isn’t a game to play.”

“It is no different than me coming here tonight,” I say, turning to face the reporters.

“Do you think that the two of you will be able to play against each other?”

“We have already,” I say.

“Twice,” Ander says.

“Yes,” the same reporter says. “But what I mean is, for the playoffs. The Blizzards and the Mules are heavy favorites to make it to the finals. Will your relationship affect those games?”

“No,” Ander and I both say together.

“You already struggled this year,” a reporter says to Ander. “Why are you so confident that you will be able to stay focused playing against him?”

“My struggles this season had nothing to do with Nikolai,” Ander says. His voice has an irritated edge to it. “In fact, he’s the main reason why I was able to get back on track.”

On top of the table for everyone in the room to see, I grab his hand. He gives my fingers a squeeze.

“Isn’t that more proof that the two of you can’t play against each other?”

“I do not see why not,” I say. “He has his net to protect and I have mine. It is simple.”

“Are you saying that if one of you played a different position this situation could present a problem?”

“No,” I say. “I am saying that we are both professionals. When the puck drops it does not matter that we are in love.”

Across the room there is an audible gasp at my declaration.

“What about your respective locker rooms? Your teammates can’t be happy about this?”

At the question, Ander lets out a full belly laugh. “Do you honestly think the Blizzards locker room, of all locker rooms, has a problem with this?”

The reporter who asked that question slumps down in his chair.

“My team does not care either,” I say. “They are happy for us.”

“What can we expect from the two of you next?”

“You can expect us to start kicking ass in the playoffs,” Ander says.

I lean forward in my chair, bringing my mouth closer to the microphone. “And one of us will be hoisting the cup at the end of it.”

THIRTY-THREE

STANLEY CUP FINALS—GAME SEVEN

Ander

We have been purposefully avoiding each other since the start of the final round. No phone calls. No sneaking off to see one another despite the fact we’ve been in the same city for two and a half weeks straight.