Shootout

Joren Radcliffe is already on the ice when you walk out of the tunnel at 9:40, and so are about forty fans pressed against the glass at Riverlight's practice end, holding phones and a hand-painted sign that says MARRY ME JOREN (I CAN COOK).

He skates over to them. He fist-bumps a kid in a teal toque through the gap by the bench. He signs a jersey, a cast, a forehead. He tells a grandmother in a Tidewater scarf that he likes her earrings, and he means it, you can tell, because she glows like a lamp.

This morning, in his kitchen, he didn't say three words. He handed you coffee in a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST UNCLE and stared out at the lake until it was time to leave. He drove. You followed in your rental, and he didn't look in his mirror once.

Now he turns from the glass and catches your eye, and the smile flickers. Just for a second. Then it's back.

"You're the new guy."

The man who says it is six foot four, gorgeous, and enormous in full gear, with a grin that takes up half the rink. "Obinna Afolayan. Defense. Houston. I already like you, because Ossi said you were weird, and Ossi likes weird."

"I said he was quiet," says the man behind him.

Ossi Hakkarainen is long and narrow, with tired blue eyes and the stillness of every good starting goalie you've ever met. He holds out a hand. His knee brace is visible even under his pads.

"Welcome," he says. "I am the old one. You are the young one. Gaston will yell at both of us."

"I heard that," growls Gaston Duquette from the bench. He's sixty-something and wears a faded windbreaker like he's been buried in it. "Ethan. Net. Now. We see what Anchorage was too stupid to keep."

You've done this a hundred times. New team, new rink, new shooters who want to see if you're soft.

You're not soft.

You tap the left post, then the right. A habit since you were nine. Good morning, posts. Then you crouch, and the world narrows to the blue paint and the black puck and whatever's coming at you.

The first hour is drills. You stop most of them. Haverkamp watches with his arms folded and says nothing, which you've learned is the highest compliment coaches give.

Then shootouts. One skater at a time, from the red line, everyone watching.

Joren goes fourth.

He comes in fast and loose, the stick barely moving, and you see the fake before he throws it. He goes forehand, backhand, forehand, and you're already there. The puck hits your pad and dies.

A few guys bang their sticks on the ice.

He circles back. Goes again. This time he tries to go five-hole. You close it like a door.

"Again," Haverkamp says, sounding interested for the first time all day.

Joren goes again. And again. Top shelf, glove side. Low blocker. A wrist shot from the dot that would beat most goalies in this league. You stop all of them. The fifth time, he comes in slow, and you see him thinking, and he knows you see it.

Nine attempts. Nine saves.

On the ninth, he slides to a stop in a spray of snow right in front of your crease, looks at you through the cage of your mask, and laughs.

Not the bus laugh. Not the grandmother laugh. A real one, loud and surprised, his head tipping back, like the sound got out before he could check it.

The whole rink turns to look at him.

"Okay," he says, breathless, still grinning at you. "Okay. That's rude."

"You hesitate before you go glove side," you say.

"I do not."

"Your left shoulder drops. Every time."

He stares at you. Then he skates backward a few strides, still looking, and says, "Noted, 31," before he turns away.

Obinna drifts over to your crease, leaning on his stick.

"I've played with that man for four years," he says, low. "I've never heard him laugh like that."

That night he makes salmon and rice and something green, and you eat at his kitchen island while the woodstove ticks. He's easier at home tonight. He tells you about the lake, the otters that live under the dock, the neighbor's golden retriever that swims over every morning to steal tennis balls.

"Can I ask about the cereal?" you say.

He groans into his hands. "Please don't."

"There's six boxes, Joren."

"There's eleven. I hid some." He drops his hands. "My dad set it up when I was nineteen. It's the biggest deal any player in this league has. They put me on the box, on buses, on the side of a blimp, once. 'Start Golden.' I have to be golden. Golden boys don't fight, don't swear in interviews, don't do anything." He pushes rice around his plate. "I've never finished a bowl. Don't tell anyone. They'll revoke my blimp."

"Your secret's safe."

He looks up at you then, a long look you can't read.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah."

He nods, slow, and goes back to his plate.

You come down at 5 a.m. for water, because game days wake you early. The kitchen light is on.

He's standing at the sink in a T-shirt, both hands braced on the edge, head bowed. His shoulders are shaking. The faucet's running, and under it you hear him breathing like he's run a mile.

You stop in the doorway. The floorboard creaks.

He straightens fast and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Doesn't turn around.

"Pregame," he says, too lightly. "It's a thing. It's not a thing. It's fine."

You think of the voice through the vent. He doesn't know.

You don't ask. You fill a glass of water and set it on the counter next to him and go back upstairs, and you hear him let out a breath behind you like he'd been bracing for a hit that didn't come.

He scores twice that night against the Boise Steelhawks. You watch from the end of the bench in your ball cap. Portland wins 4-1, and on the TV in the locker room afterward, a reporter asks Joren what makes him so consistent and he says, "Just lucky, I guess," with the dimple, and everyone laughs.

You're in bed by midnight, reading the same page of a paperback four times, when someone knocks.

Two soft knocks. You know whose.

You open the door. He's standing in the dark hallway in sweatpants and the gray hoodie, hair still damp from the shower, arms folded tight across his chest like he's cold.

"Sorry," he says. "I know it's late."

"It's fine. You okay?"

He nods. Then shakes his head. Then laughs at himself, a small, miserable sound.

"Can I ask you something?" he says. "You can tell me to mind my own business."

"Go ahead."

He takes a breath. Looks at the floor, then at you, and his green eyes are wide and very serious.

"You're out, right? Like, actually out." His voice drops. "How did you do it, Ethan?"