Goalie Lessons

Griffin

Anika waddles across the synthetic ice like a penguin wearing a sumo suit and gets back into position in front of the net.
“You’re doing great, sweetheart!” I call out encouragingly, which is perhaps the biggest lie I’ve told since claiming I didn’t eat her last chocolate bar. I will never get enough Swiss chocolate.
“I can’t move!” Anika’s voice echoes from inside my old goalie mask. “How do you breathe in this?”
“You get used to it. Now focus. Puck’s coming your way.”
We have the Visp practice facility all to ourselves this morning, thanks to my connections as a former player and Anika’s supernatural ability to charm every staff member into doing whatever she wants. Two weeks ago, she convinced the stern-faced facility manager, who once made a pro player cry for bringing coffee onto the ice, to let us use the training room whenever we want. Now he brings her homemade pastries.
“That woman is something special,” Jonas, one of the maintenance guys, had whispered to me in the hallway earlier.
“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “She’s also taken. Very taken. Extremely taken.”
Now I watch as Anika attempts to assume the butterfly position I just demonstrated. The pads swallow her whole and she’s practically swimming in the equipment. Only her eyes are visible through the mask’s cage, blinking owlishly as she tries to balance.
“Like this?” she asks, wobbling precariously.
“Almost. Knees together, and…”
The sentence dies in my throat as she topples sideways with a squeak, landing in a heap of oversized padding. The sight of her sprawled on the ice, limbs splayed like a starfish in gear that could fit two of her, makes my heart do a little flip.
How did I get so lucky?
“I meant to do that,” she declares, voice muffled by the mask.
“Of course you did.” I skate over and help her up. “Goalies call that the ‘distract the opponent with your adorableness’ technique.”
“Is it working?” She tilts her masked face up at me.
“Absolutely. I’m completely disarmed.”
Standing her upright again, I position myself a few meters away with a bucket of pucks.
“Okay, let’s try stopping a few. Remember, track the puck with your eyes.”
“Just shoot already!” She attempts to slap her gloves together but misses entirely.
I take a gentle shot, sending the puck sliding toward her at approximately the speed that would make a turtle laugh. Anika lunges dramatically in the opposite direction of the puck.
“That wasn’t even close!” She laughs as the puck taps gently against the back board.
“You’re supposed to stop it, not perform interpretive dance,” I call, retrieving another puck.
“I thought I saw it go left!”
“It went right.”
“Details, details.”
For the next twenty minutes, I shoot the softest, slowest shots humanly possible while Anika flails, flops, and falls in every direction except the correct one. Out of thirty pucks, she manages to stop exactly two. Both by complete accident when they hit her padding while she was lying on the ice after another spectacular tumble.
“I got it!” she cheers after a puck bounces off her shoulder pad. “Did you see that? I’m a natural!”
“Let me show you a real goalie stance,” I say, positioning myself in front of the net. I demonstrate the proper form. Knees bent, weight centered, glove up and ready.
Anika tries to mimic my stance but looks more like she’s doing the chicken dance inside a marshmallow suit. Her legs wobble as she attempts to crouch, the oversized pads making her normally graceful movements comically awkward.
I shoot another gentle glider. This time Anika actually moves in the correct direction, but she overcompensates and spins like a top before landing flat on her back, arms and legs flailing.
“I meant to do that too,” she insists, her voice muffled beneath layers of padding.
“Of course you did. Very tactical.” I can’t help but laugh as I skate over to help her up. “That’s the famous Swiss Tornado defense move, right?”
She swats at me with her blocker as I pull her upright. “Mock me all you want, McGregor. When I become the first female Swiss-Canadian goalie sensation, you’ll be begging to be my agent.”
“I’m shaking in my skates.” I position another puck. “Ready for round twenty?”
Anika widens her stance, waggling her gloved hands like she’s preparing for a showdown at high noon. “Bring it on, eh?”
Her attempt at a Canadian accent sends me into a fit of laughter, but I compose myself enough to take another shot. A bit faster this time, but still gentle by any standard.
The puck slides straight between her pads as she dives dramatically to the left, performing a belly flop onto the ice. Her squeal of surprise echoes through the empty rink, followed by her infectious laughter.
“Did I stop it?” she asks, not even bothering to look behind her.
“If by stop it you mean completely missed it, then yes, you nailed it.”
“I felt the wind from it! That must count for something.” She attempts to roll over but is stuck on her belly.
I skate over, unable to contain my smile at the sight of her. The woman who took down two drunk guys with martial arts moves and faced off with international criminals is now completely helpless, swaddled in goalie gear.
“Just gonna take a power nap now,” she mumbles.
“Is that right?” I circle around her, unable to resist the temptation. “Well, I think your plan has a fatal flaw.”
“Which is?”
“You’re completely defenseless against my tickles.” I drop down and tackle her gently, pinning her to the ice with a playful growl.
Anika squeals with laughter, attempting to swat me off with padded arms that barely bend. “This is unfair! I’m wearing fifty pounds of equipment!”
“All’s fair in love and hockey,” I counter, holding myself above her. I lift myself off of her just enough to haul her over onto her back. Even with all the bulky padding between us, I feel a rush of warmth at our closeness. “Besides, you’re the cutest goaltender I’ve ever seen.”

“Cute?” She tries to sound offended but fails miserably. “I am fierce and intimidating! Fear me!”
“Absolutely terrifying,” I agree solemnly, then reach for the clips on her mask. “So terrifying I need to see your face.”
I gently remove her helmet, revealing flushed cheeks and those strawberry blonde waves now damp with perspiration. Her eyes sparkle up at me with mischief and something softer, something that still makes my heart race every time I see it.
“Hi there,” I murmur.
“Hi yourself,” she whispers back.
“You know, for someone who’s never played hockey before, you’re doing pretty well.”
“Will all my lessons end like this?” Her voice drops to a whisper that sends a shiver down my spine.
“If you’re lucky,” I reply, leaning down to press my lips against hers.
She responds immediately, one gloved hand awkwardly patting around until she finds the back of my head, holding me close. The kiss deepens, and I’m lost in the sensation of her. The softness of her lips contrasting with the hard edges of the equipment surrounding us.
When we finally break apart, she’s breathless and smiling. “I think I like playing goalie after all.”
“Good,” I murmur against her lips. “Because I plan on teaching you everything I know.”
“Everything?” Her eyebrows raise suggestively.
“Everything,” I confirm, my lips brushing against hers. “Though some lessons might require… different equipment.”
“Is that so?” Anika’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Such as?”
“For starters, significantly less padding.” I help her waddle to the bench and she plops down.
As I remove the equipment piece by piece, Anika gradually reemerges from beneath the layers of padding. With each piece I strip away, her smile grows wider, more relaxed.
“Freedom!” she declares when I finally pull off the chest protector, stretching her arms dramatically.
“Better?” I ask, unable to stop my eyes from lingering on the way her thin practice jersey clings to her curves.
“Much.” She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “See something you like, Coach?”
“Definitely.” I step between her knees, resting my hands on her shoulders. “Though I think this lesson might benefit from a more… private venue.”
Anika pretends to consider this, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “The locker room?”
“I was thinking… the cabin. Fewer security cameras.”
She stands, pressing herself against me. “So, Coach McGregor, any special exercises I should practice?”
“Absolutely.” I wrap an arm around her waist. “I’ve got some special drills in mind that require a much softer surface than ice.”
“Well then. Lead the way.” Anika presses a quick kiss to my lips. “I’m very eager to improve my technique.”