Page 59 of Goalie Interference

“I am helping. You have to be ready to accept fact the game will not always go your way.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when you lose?” If he was sitting here across from me, I’d be leveling him with my best stone-faced stare.

“Something like that, yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I have more experience with losing than you do.”

I pull on the strings of my hoodie. “Not lately.”

“Says the man who had a shutout in his last game.” Nikolai laughs. Hearing it makes my heart sing and my chest burn with warmth. It’s the best sound I’ve heard all day.

I smile. “You have a point.”

“Then what is all this about? We should be celebrating.”

My stomach churns. “I did enough of that last night.”

“So that is where you were.”

My head tilts to the side in thought. Was Nikolai looking for me?

“Fuck,” I say, a realization hitting me. “I never called you back last night.”

“I did not ask you to,” he says. Which is true. But also, his message last night was a very sweet gesture. Better than the texts in the goalie group chat that came through, though I appreciate those as well. It’s just that hearing Nikolai’s voice is better. So much better. It’s all I really care to hear at the moment.

“I meant to though,” I say, honestly. “You know how it is. After a win like that, the team kind of takes over and the next thing you know, you’re out at a bar way later than you’re supposed to be and having a panic attack on the sidewalk.”

Shit. I was not supposed to say that last part out loud. That moment when my world turned upside down was supposed to remain between me, God, and the rats rooting through trash on the sidewalk.

“Panic attack?” Nikolai asks, concern thick in his voice. “What were you panicking about?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just had too much to drink is all. In fact, I’m still hungover. Ignore everything I’ve said on this call.”

He’s silent on his end. My blood runs cold as my neck begins to sweat. I wish he would say something.

Nikolai

Something has Ander freaked out, and I can’t help but wonder if it doesn’t have anything to do with hockey. Last night was a huge win for him. He was supposed to be out celebrating with his teammates, not having a panic attack on a New York city sidewalk. I hate the thought of him alone and vulnerable like that.

So if his evening started out celebratory and devolved into disaster there are many options as to why that would be. My chances of getting an honest answer out of him on this, though, seem slim to none.

Taking a breath, I avoid the temptation of asking what set him off and choose a wiser, more helpful tactic. “You can call me if this happens again.”

“If what happens again? I get wasted?” He laughs but it sounds fake. “Because if that’s the case, you’re going to regret that suggestion.”

“You are lying,” I say.

“No. I’m dead ass. You’re going to get so sick of me calling you in the middle of the night. Especially when the season is going on.”

“I will not get sick of you calling, that I know for sure,” I say with a steady and even voice. Then, turning more teasing, I add, “What you are lying about is the frequency in which you will call me because you are drunk. My guess is that last night was first time you have had more than one drink in weeks.”

“Caught me,” he says, sounding like his tail is between his legs.

I will say this about Ander, he is very easy to read, even over the phone. But he’s hiding something from me, and it will take some work to get him to open up about it.

“This panic attack,” I say, voice back to even and steady. I want him to focus on it, hear me, and maybe together we can stop him from spinning. “Is this regular occurrence?”