Brit
“I’m surprised,” Frankie says from next to me, crouched on one knee on the ice next to me as we scoop up pucks, toss them into the plastic basket they’re stored in.
“Surprised at what?” I ask, shooing him away.
He stays after practice to give me some extra training—the least I can do is clean up after myself.
“That you’re only going for one bucket today,” he says.
My stomach clenches and I can’t shove down the bolt of guilt that slides through my middle. Maybe I should stay a little longer, practice just a bit more, keep going until I’m perfect and—
He settles his hand on my shoulder. “I’m pleasantly surprised, Brit.”
The knot in my gut loosens, and I exhale. “Stefan and Roxie are making pizzas.”
His face changes, and I know with just that much, he gets it. “That’s good, honey,” he says. “I was wondering how long it would take for you two to work things out.”
I wince.
Does fucking and exchanging romantic words really count as working it out?
Especially when there’s so much that we haven’t discussed, haven’t come to terms with, haven’t—
“You know,” Frankie says, coming down onto his other knee, not letting me shoo him away from the pucks this time, “I always thought that you’d be right here.”
“On the ice?” I ask. “I know you’re intuitive, Frankie, but that’s not much of a stretch.”
His smile is a flash of white. “I meant training the next guy.”
I freeze, fingers wrapped around a frozen disc of rubber. “Wh-what?”
“I always figured when you retire from the crease that you’d step into coaching,” he says matter-of-factly.
Just dropping a bomb.
Coaching?
I still.
That’s not—
“You’ve had a good run, Banana”—his lips curve—“but have you thought about what you’re going to do when you’re done?” He fixes me with a stare. “I mean really done, not that Michael Jordan retire and come back nonsense you pulled a couple of seasons back.”
“Frankie.”
“Not pressuring you.” He tosses a puck into the bucket. “Just…food for thought.”
“I…”
He stills, and I want to run from the thoughts in my head, want to ignore the fear that unleashes in me—what am I without hockey?
Who am I if I’m not Brit Plantain, the first woman to play in the NHL?
Who am I without this team behind me?
Who am I without Stefan? Without Rox?
And why is it that the last two questions are the ones that really strike fear into my heart?
All of that is running through my mind as we kneel there, Frankie beside me, not pushing me to talk or move or—
“I should let you get back to your grand kids,” I say instead of acknowledging his statements.
Because he watches them at their karate class these evenings and that’s more important than me having an existential crisis—
“Brit,” he says softly.
“I know they’re testing for their new belts soon,” I tell him. “You’ll want to make sure you see them practice.”
“Brit,” he says again, still soft. But this time, he waits.
For me to look at him.
I don’t want to.
I want to drop my mask back down and skate back over to the net and take a hundred more shots so I don’t have to think about my marriage dissolving and my role in it, how I might have been so fucking focused on my career and passion that I ruined my relationship, how I might not have been what Stefan wanted or needed.
But he said—
Sweet words aren’t actions.
So, I want to avoid thinking that I might be becoming the same person for Roxie—not enough, too focused on my own stuff, too—
Well, just not good enough.
And I sure as shit want to stop worrying about who I’ll be without hockey and just…do hockey.
Get lost in the rush. Solve any problems in the locker room or on the ice or with my guys and their partners and—
I’ve been doing exactly that for the last couple of months—okay, well…if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve been doing it for the last few years…
Scared to let go and move on to the next stage of my life.
Scared not to.
Woman enough? Or too much?
A good mom? How can I be good when I’m training so much and traveling so often? How can I be when I miss Muffins with Moms and am not in town to help Rox with her book report? How can I be a good example as a strong woman if I just give up my career?
It’s all messed up and terrifying and…it’s been easier to stick with what I know.
And all of that means I’m no closer to solving the shit in my head, my heart, my soul.
But I do finally find the courage to look up at Frankie. “You’re not ready,” he says. “And that’s okay.” His mouth kicks up. “Just try not to be too hard on yourself until you are.”
I suck in a breath, hold it for a long time.
Then exhale, managing to keep my tone light when I ask, “Have you met me?”
He doesn’t buy that lightness, I can see it on his face, but he doesn’t call me on it, just straightens with a groan and says, “When you’re ready to be done, new opportunities will arise. Some may be shit.” His lips twitch. “But one of those might be gold.” He fixes me with a stare. “Like being the Gold’s new goalie coach.”
I suck in a breath.
But he’s still talking.
“When you’re ready,” he repeats, and then snags the basket of pucks, carries it over to the boards, climbing through the open door. “See you tomorrow after the game,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
I look around the empty rink as though that will give me answers, and unsurprisingly, I don’t find any, so I…
Push it all down as I get up onto my skates, move through that open door, walking down the hall to the locker room.
I ignore the banana in my stall—swear to God, a woman talks about her love of the yellow, penis-shaped fruit one time and all of a sudden it’s a catchphrase.
Fucking hockey players.
Fucking locker room razzing.
Fucking brain that is all twisted up.
Ugh.
I change and shower, shoot the shit with the guys, and then—ignoring all manner of knowing looks from my teammates, all of whom are clearly far too familiar with my routine, far more familiar than they should be—I walk out of the practice facility, intent on my car.
So intent that I don’t realize what’s happening at first.
So intent that I don’t see the man coming up behind me.