Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(42)
Little late for that. I’m in a tailspin. Hopefully, I’ll have my shit together before Friday. That’s a few days away still.
“Just so I’m clear,” I say carefully. “Does New York still want me for training over the summer?”
“Last I heard, it was looking good. That alone is a great sign, and it’s why you shouldn’t worry. Focus on what you can control.”’
He’s right. That’s all I can do.
Ending the call, I get into line for a coffee before I haul ass to the rink. Practice is a shit show, at least inwardly. My performance is strong but my mental game sucks. I’m rattled after every single shot that gets past me—even though very few of them do.
When I meet Mark for off-ice training afterwards, I already know I’m in for a rough ride.
“Have you been practicing your drills?” He looks at me over his shoulder as he grabs the yellow reaction ball from where it rolled out of my reach. Again. Its unpredictable trajectory is perfect for training reflexes and agility. It also makes it painfully obvious when I’m not in the zone.
“Daily, like you said.”
He grunts. “I was watching you on the ice. You’ve been distracted all day.”
Who wouldn’t be? Between New York looking at picking up another goalie and what happened with Seraphina a few days ago, my head is anywhere but here.
That isn’t an excuse. In fact, it’s pretty goddamn weak.
“Sorry,” I say, taking the six-sided ball from Mark’s palm.
Fucking focus.
Drawing in a deep breath to center myself, I reset my stance before I release the ball again. It bounces off the floor and veers sharply to the right. This time, my hand snatches out of mid-air on the first try.
It takes more effort than usual, but I manage to pull my act together for the rest of our tactical skills training. Then we move into the stretching area for some much-needed mindfulness, breathwork, and visualization. It requires stellar emotional regulation to perform well under pressure. I can’t win games, but I can sure as fuck lose them. I’m the hero or the scapegoat, depending how things play out. Either way, everyone knows how I played.
“Let’s do a quick nutrition checkin.” Mark shuffles the stack of papers on his lap and glances up at me. “Latest DEXA scan looks good. Your muscle mass is great. Body fat percentage is right in the range of where we want it to be, though it’s trending down slightly. Make sure you’re eating enough. We don’t want you to get too lean.”
“I’m not sure I could eat more if I tried.” At this point, it feels like a part-time job.
My stomach growls angrily as if the subject summoned my appetite.
“On that note,” he says, “What do you say we grab a cheat meal off-campus? We can have a chat about a few things.”
I know from experience this is his way of using fried food to lure me into a false sense of security before he delivers a tough love peptalk. After how shaky I was at the start of training, I can’t say I’m surprised.
“Sure. Let me swing by my locker to grab a few things and I can meet you in half an hour.”
Halfway to the Overtime to meet Mark, I get delayed behind a massive accident. After sitting at a full stop for ten minutes, there’s no chance I’ll make it on time. I’m supposed to be there already.
When I hit the button on my hands-free controls to call and let him know, it says no phone is connected. Huh?
I reach into the console for my phone and find it empty. Great. Must’ve left it in my locker. At least, I hope that’s where it is; that, or it fell out of my pocket on the way to my car. If I lost it, that’ll be the last straw for the day.
Either way, I’m late—which I fucking hate—and I can’t even let Mark know. Then I realize I never got the chance to write Seraphina back. Shit. She probably thinks I’m blowing her off.
Mark already has a booth in the corner when I finally walk inside the wooden double-doors to Overtime. He gives me a nod, and I tug off my gloves, weaving around the tables over to him.
“Sorry,” I say, sliding off my winter coat. “One of those days. Got stuck in traffic, and I don’t have my phone on me. I have no idea where it is.”
Something that looks like concern glances across his face. “No worries, Ty.”
He lets me borrow his phone to sign into iCloud on his browser. According to the little blinking circle on the map, my phone appears to be at the arena like I thought. On the off chance it’s sitting out somewhere and not in my locker, I put it into lost mode until I’m able to go grab it.
Our server runs us through the daily specials before she takes our drink orders and leaves us with the menus. Scanning the list of dishes, I debate whether to stay on plan. I’ve been diligent about my eating habits this season. A lot less beer and alcohol, and a lot more nutrient-dense calories to fuel me through practices and games. Worth it for the resulting performance gains on the ice, but I can’t deny that it sucks to see Chase and Dallas hoover whatever they want without a second thought. They have a lot more leeway than I do. Teams have over twenty players but only one starting goalie. Our career paths are not the same.
“I meant what I said about the cheat meal.” Mark looks at me pointedly over the top of his menu. “Don’t even think about trying to order something like grilled fish and rice.”