Crossing the Goal Line

by Kim Findlay

  “Man, even girls are scoring on Reimer.”

  Troy had found her button. She was moving before she was even aware. She checked into Troy with her hip. He’d bent to grab a puck, so he was off balance, and down he went. Bridget stopped, suddenly concerned that she might have hurt more than Troy’s pride.

  But Troy was fine and redeemed himself a bit in her eyes by laughing instead of getting angry.

  “Okay, I won’t rag on your boyfriend when you’re around,” he said as she gave him a hand up.

  Mike called out, “Nah, say what you want about me. Just don’t tell her girls can’t play hockey.” He smiled over at Bridget.

  “She’s feisty,” said Troy. Bridget narrowed her eyes. “Okay, sorry,” he said, backing off.

  The last players were straggling onto the ice and the coaches were out, so Bridget skated quickly to the box. Jack was there and helped her take off the skates.

  Bridget climbed up to the seats to watch. As both a hockey fan and a coach herself, it was fascinating. The public didn’t usually get into team practices, so this was an uncommon opportunity.

  The practice ended, and the Zamboni came out to freshen the ice for the home team. Bridget knew she had some time before Mike was ready to go. She made her way down to the bench to thank the head coach for allowing her to be here.

  “We don’t stand a chance if Mike isn’t on his game,” he responded. “If anyone asks, I never said that.”

  “There’s not much I can do, but if he thinks my being around helps, then...” She shrugged.

  He nodded. “Mike says you’re a coach.”

  “Swimming.”

  A slight smile pulled at the edges of his mouth. “Any difference?” he asked dryly.

  Bridget nodded. “The water here is harder.”

  * * *

  GAME ONE, ROUND ONE, the playoffs. Bridget was early, because she’d cabbed over with Mike. That had made her wonder why he never commuted with the team, though she’d kept that to herself. The seats started filling in. Her jersey wasn’t appreciated by the Philly fans but some Toronto fans gave her high fives. A tubby guy in a Philly jersey sat beside her and gave her an assessing look.

  “That a game-worn jersey?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be nice to be rich.” He scoffed.

  Bridget laughed. Yeah she had a great jersey, but she hadn’t paid for it.

  “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

  “My dad’s a mechanic. I coach a swim team. You’re richer than I am if you can afford these seats.”

  “I won a contest,” he mumbled.

  “I know the player. I couldn’t afford the jersey otherwise.”

  “Really? He gonna be up to it this year?”

  “Unfortunately for you guys, yeah, he’s good.”

  “Crap.”

  “So how’s your goalie?” asked Bridget.

  “He’s young.”

  The teams were introduced, the national anthems sung. Then, after the ceremonial puck drop, the real one happened and the game was on.

  The game wasn’t a pretty one for Toronto. The team was tentative and had little possession time. An early goal on a screened shot for Philly ignited the home crowd and seemed to deflate the Blaze.

  But Mike wasn’t giving up. Bridget could almost feel his determination from her seat, and soon everyone was aware of it. Philly was taking two or three shots for every Toronto shot, but nothing was getting past Mike. A breakaway had the crowd on their feet, but Mike shut the door. Bridget cheered, as did the other Toronto fans in the crowd.

  “You were right. Iceman is on his game,” said her neighbor after the first period ended.

  “Told ya. Now if the rest of the team...”

  Toronto came out for the second period revitalized. Whatever might happen, Mike wasn’t going to let them down this game. Philly was still leading, and was able to add a score on a power play.

  “Too bad your friend couldn’t score as well,” said the Philly fan.

  “Game’s not over yet,” said Bridget.

  But the Blaze did lose. During the third, Troy Green, of all people, led a two-on-one and was able to cut the Philly lead to one. Toronto pulled Mike for the last couple of minutes of the third but weren’t able to capitalize.

  “Good game,” said her neighbor. “Your friend did good. We might end up with a series.”

  “Count on it,” said Bridget.

  * * *

  MIKE HAD SAID he would meet her after the game, so she wandered around the concourse, looking at Philly jerseys and plaques. Some Philly fans gave her a hard time, but they’d won, so they were in a good mood. Bridget was familiar with trash talk, and gave as good as she got but kept it good-natured. Finally she was alone, except for the staff starting to close up.

  “There you are. Ready to go?”

  Mike was in the suit that the team was required to wear to and from games. It contrasted with the beard that was filling in, giving him a decidedly scruffy look.

  “Sure.”

  They didn’t talk much on the way back to the hotel. Most of the team had gone on the bus. Bridget wasn’t sure if Mike was traveling separately on her behalf, or because he didn’t feel like part of the team. She hoped it was for her.

  They found a corner at the hotel bar, and Mike ordered two beers. Bridget knew he’d drink only some of his. She felt limp and drained. Would alcohol cheer her up, or just depress her further?

  Mike glanced at her quizzically. “You look like you’re the one that just played a sixty-minute hockey game, Bridget. What’s up?”

  “How are you so upbeat? In case you missed it, you guys lost.”

  “One goal. You know it’s hard to win in their arena, especially the first game. They’re a pretty high-scoring team, and we kept them to two. Their goalie had a good game, but he’s beatable. We’ll see in two nights.”

  Bridget frowned. “So it’s not getting to you, after last year? I’m sure the press were all over you about that. This is the playoffs, and after the trouble last year, I know they’ll be dissecting every play.”

  Mike answered her seriously. “I hate losing. And for everybody, a win would have been better, but this is different than last year. Back then, I wasn’t playing well. I didn’t have any confidence. The team wasn’t playing all that well either. Tonight, I played a good game. The two goals were good ones. In the circumstances, I don’t think they were stoppable. They also were a bit fluky, so Philly can’t do the same thing again. And the team was playing a lot better. They had some really good scoring chances, and eventually they’ll find the net.

  “Being a goalie is a very mental job. You can let yourself get swamped by it, or you can break it down into its simplest parts and focus just on what you can control. Philly played well tonight, and I couldn’t have done anything on those two goals. So I just let it go and look for the next save.”

  “Good. I promised the guy beside me that we’d make a series out of it.”

  “You know him?” Mike asked.

  “No, we just got talking.”

  Mike grinned. “And then you’ll get in a fight with a Toronto fan at home.”

  “Hey, there are jerks in any group of fans.”

  As if to prove the point, two men came over to their table. They’d obviously had a few to drink and were upset about the loss. They were rude and obnoxious. Mike reached for Bridget’s hand under the table and squeezed lightly, but it was enough to stop her from speaking out. Mike did his Iceman routine and got rid of them without losing his temper.

  “I don’t know how you do that.”

  “I know you don’t.” He grinned. “That’s why I stopped you from ripping up at them. There was no point. They were drunk and wouldn’t remember in the morning. Why don’t we go now?”

  Bridget was
glad to leave. She’d kept quiet while Mike was holding her hand, but she wasn’t sure she could keep it up.

  * * *

  BY DAY THREE, Mike was finding a comfortable routine. He and Bridget would meet for breakfast and then head early to the arena. She was having a blast, skating on the big ice and trying to get the puck by him. She wasn’t going to, but he enjoyed the time with her. He knew his own teammates, and he’d seen lots of film on the Philly players, but Bridget was a wild card and kept him on his toes. He stood in his crease now, watching her. She wasn’t wearing a helmet, which was a bit risky, but it gave him a better chance of figuring out her next move since he could watch her expression. He could see the moment she made a decision. Instead of skating toward him, she backed up. What was she up to?

  Charging the goalie? Really, was that what she was going to try? He had inches and pounds on her, as well as a full set of pads. Maybe she thought he’d back off, but he was just as competitive as she was, and he had his car to protect.

  She tried to sneak around him at the last minute, but they both mistimed. He was trying to avoid hurting her, and she was trying to avoid getting hurt, and somehow their skates collided and they both ended up on the ice. Bridget had the breath knocked out of her, but she wasn’t hurt. Mike took a minute to move, making sure she was able to get up before he did. She rolled over quickly and looked at him with concern.

  “It doesn’t count if we all end up in the net together,” he said, then grinned at her.

  She sat back, relieved, and only then did he realize most of the team had gathered, watching them.

  “Perhaps we can get started before Ms. O’Reilly injures anyone,” warned the coach. Mike helped Bridget scramble to her feet, and noticed that she left the ice quickly.

  Game two. Toronto came out playing hard this game. Philly also wasn’t giving any quarter. It was a tough, physical game. Penalties were frequent, and the goalies were hard-pressed.

  Mike could feel that special edge returning. Everything seemed to slow down. He had all the time in the world to see the puck approaching and get in front of it. He’d had that feeling before. It was rare, but when it came, he rode it as long as he could. This was being the best, and there was nothing Mike wanted more.

  It was a nail-biter for the fans. Once the puck hit the crossbar, once it was called off on replay. Toronto had a goal called back when the Philly net came off its posts.

  The final score was 1–0, for Toronto. Mike was first star. The monkey was off his back.

  * * *

  THE SERIES NOW moved back to Toronto for two games. Mike let Bridget know they were still okay to work on the bet, as long as she didn’t injure him. He could tell she wanted to tease him about that, but she was a little awed at the opportunity to skate on the ice at the Toronto arena. Bridget had brought her own skates, and Mike wasn’t surprised to find her in conversation with Jack, as if they’d been friends from way back. He suspected she was getting advice to help with their bet. The way he was feeling, it wasn’t going to happen. Mike took a moment to watch her when she started skating on the ice, waiting till she noticed he’d arrived. Her eyes and cheeks were glowing. It warmed something inside him.

  “This is so awesome.”

  He smiled back. “Can you manage not to knock me down today?”

  She tried to hold back her grin. “I was trying to crash the net.”

  He snorted. “That ended up being charging the goalie, and that gets you a penalty.”

  Bridget stuck out her tongue, grabbed her stick and skated to the blue line with a puck.

  It felt like no time till the rest of the team showed up. They were obviously getting curious about this special warm-up.

  One player spoke out, “What happens if she actually scores?”

  Mike caught the puck high glove side; another foiled attempt. “You don’t want to know.”

  Bridget said, “I get to drive the McLaren.”

  There was a shocked silence. A third line forward—one of the grinders—was near Bridget and spoke in surprise. “But that has a stick.”

  “Are you saying I can’t drive a stick?” Bridget asked. No one had warned him about her buttons.

  The grinder started to skate away, slowly, backward. Bridget pressed forward. “I can not only drive a stick, I do so every day. I also change my oil, my tires, my belts and my brake pads, on my own!” She was poking at his chest with every accomplishment, and the grinder, not paying attention, fell over on his back.

  His teammates laughed. Bridget flushed.

  The grinder scrambled to his feet before Bridget could offer help. She muttered an apology. Mike skated by, saying, “I forgot to warn you she has a thing about women drivers, too.”

  Bridget skated off the ice. Mike wasn’t sure she’d be back. That was three guys she’d knocked over, on game days. The team had been lucky with injuries so far, and no one was wanting to risk that.

  The game that night was one of those weird matches that happen once in a while, but not normally in a playoff. Anything could and did happen. Sticks broke, a puck went in the Toronto net off Mike’s back; Philly had too many men on the ice for a full minute before anyone noticed. Bridget’s grinder, apparently surviving his fall without getting hurt, managed to score his first ever hat trick. Two of those goals went in off his skate in a melee around the Philly net, but they still counted. Mike shook his head at the end, but the final score was 6–5 for Toronto. They were up two games to one in a best of seven series.

  Bridget said she couldn’t make the next practice. Mike didn’t press her. He wasn’t sure that his coach wasn’t going to put his foot down, in any case. Jack asked if she was okay; the coach, overhearing, just raised his eyebrows and turned away.

  The least said about the fourth game, the better. Toronto played as if they’d just come from Junior A and lost, badly. Mike was the best player they had that night, but it wasn’t a good game for him, either. The series was now tied up two games to two. There would be at least six games, if not seven, in this best of seven series. This was much better than last year when the team had been swept in four games, but having left Philadelphia with a split, returning there still tied up was a disappointment.

  Mike picked Bridget up after the game in the Rover. The arena had mostly emptied by then. He didn’t want to see anyone. The whole team was in a foul mood and didn’t want to discuss how they’d played. They drove in silence for a while. Eventually Mike pulled into an empty parking lot.

  “Not a good game,” said Bridget at last.

  Mike sighed. “That’s an understatement. Not that I had a great game tonight, but, I told you, this team can’t go far the way it is. If I let in a soft goal, they think I’m about to fall apart and they tense up, and the game is shot.”

  “They still don’t trust you?” Bridget asked.

  “Until we beat Quebec, with me in net, they won’t. And even if we win this series, and go on to play Quebec, we can’t win until they trust me. It’s a catch-22.”

  “Could you tell them why last year was such a disaster, and why it won’t happen again this year?”

  Mike looked at her levelly. “Are you sure it wouldn’t happen again?”

  “I can’t be sure Toronto would win, no, but I am sure you wouldn’t fall apart again,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, quiet and confident. “But I don’t think telling them what happened last year would help. They can’t think that I have a weakness like that.”

  “But if it’s over...” Bridget started.

  “I can’t just tell them that it is, I have to show them, and then we’re back in that vicious circle again.”

  “At least this one can’t be blamed on me. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  Mike looked at her, and then laughed.

  Bridget was puzzled. “Are you going to tell me why that was so fun
ny?”

  Mike leaned back and sighed. “You know how superstitious athletes can be, right?”

  Bridget nodded. “I’ve heard of goalies who have to hit the goal posts, skate around the net...” she teased.

  Mike reached over and grabbed her hand. “Well, Bridget O’Reilly, you’ve just become a Toronto Blaze superstition.”

  It made sense, in a weird way. Troy Green had made a crack on the morning of the first game, and Bridget had checked him and knocked him over. Even though the team hadn’t won that game, Troy had had a breakaway and scored the only goal for Toronto. The next game day was the one where Bridget had crashed into Mike, and he had a shutout that night. Game three, the grinder had gone down and ended up with his first ever hat trick. Game four, Bridget wasn’t at practice, and the team played horribly. So now, they wanted her back.

  Bridget shook her head. “Those were flukes. There’s no way that anything I do is going to change how they play.”

  “Granted, but if a player thinks he’s going to do well, it can make him play better.”

  “Yeah. Until one time it doesn’t work, and then it’s over.”

  “But will you come back for practice? I was asked to invite you back.”

  Bridget looked at him. “Seriously? I’ve had fun, but you don’t have to make them do this. I’m still happy to just tag along and have a great seat for every game.”

  Mike shook his head. “It didn’t come from me, I promise. A couple of the guys approached me in the dressing room after the game, and everyone agreed, for once.”

  “Even the coach? I think he was giving me the stink eye last time.”

  “He’s eminently pragmatic, and if the team thinks you make them play better, he’s all for it.”

  Bridget looked at Mike in the light of the dashboard. “You know it’s not real, right?”

  He grinned, and after pulling his hand away, started the car up again. “Yep. But if you want to run into me again, I won’t stop you.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY was a travel day. Bridget arrived after the team, and found Mike waiting for her in the hotel bar. He stood and greeted her with a kiss—not nearly long enough—and asked if she was hungry. As was now their custom, they went to the hotel restaurant, which was becoming a home away from home.