The Goal

Tears that I’ve been holding at bay for weeks spill over. Tucker cups my cheek with one warm hand and stares firmly into my eyes.

“You’re not alone,” he says, fierce and low. “And you’re not dragging anyone down. I’m here with you, Sabrina. Every step of the way.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

*

Tucker

In hockey, nearly everyone plays with a partner. The offense forward line is made up of a left wing, a center, and a right wing. The defense skates in pairs. Only the goalie is alone and he’s always weird. Always.

Kenny Simms, who graduated last year, was one of the greatest goalies at Briar and probably the reason we won three Frozen Fours in a row, but that guy had the strangest fucking habits. He talked to himself more than he talked to anyone else, sat in the back of the bus, preferred to eat alone. On the rare occasion that he came out with us, he’d argue the entire time. I once got into it with him over whether there was too much technology available to children. We argued about that topic for the entire three hours we were knocking back beers at the bar.

Sabrina reminds me of Simms. She’s not weird, but she’s closed off like he is. She thinks she’s alone. Basically, she’s never had anyone skate with her—not even her friends, Carin and Hope. I kind of understand it. The guys outside of my hockey team that I’ve been friendly with are decent, but I haven’t bled with them, cried with them, won with them. I don’t know if they’ll have my back, because we’ve never been in a position where that loyalty has been tested.

Sabrina doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone stand beside her, let alone behind her. And it’s for that reason that I don’t give in to the urge to shake her like a piñata for saying shit like I’m free to see other women. The fear in her eyes is palpable, and I remind myself that patience is the key here.

“Want me to follow you home?” I offer as I pull into the campus lot where she left her car. “We can hang out a bit, make some plans?”

She shakes her head. Of course not. The girl hasn’t been able to look at me since she broke down in tears. She hates crying in front of me. Hell, she probably hates crying in general. To Sabrina, tears are a sign of weakness, and she can’t stand being viewed as anything less than Amazonian.

I stifle a sigh and climb out of the truck. I walk her to her car and then drag her stiff body against mine. It’s like hugging a frozen log.

“I want to go to the next doctor’s visit with you,” I tell her.

“Okay.”

“Don’t get too excited about all of this. You’ll wake up the baby,” I say dryly.

She flashes a pained smile. “That’s weird, right? Saying that we’re having a baby?”

“There are weirder things. Simmsy, our old goalie, used to eat circus peanuts before each game. That’s pretty strange. A woman having a baby seems to fall into the fairly ordinary category.”

Her ears pinken. “I mean, us.” She wiggles her index finger between us. “Us having a baby is weird.”

“Nope. Don’t think that’s weird either. You’re young—and super fertile, apparently—and I can’t keep my hands off of you.” I lean down and plant a hard kiss on her surprised mouth. “Go home and take a nap or something. Text me when you know when the next appointment is. I’ll see you later.”

And then I take off before she has the opportunity to argue with me. Weird? It’s not weird. It’s terrifying and awesome at the same time, but it’s not weird.

When I get home, the house is empty, which is a good thing. If my roommates were around, I might end up spilling the beans, and I’ve got to respect Sabrina’s wishes. We’re a team now, whether she likes it or not. She’s scared out of her mind, filled with guilt, and overwhelmed with what’s going to happen next. I figure at this point all I can do is be there for her.

When you have a new teammate, they don’t always trust you right away. They’ll play puck hog because that’s the way they’re used to scoring, to achieving success. Raising a kid is a team sport. Sabrina needs to learn to trust me.

But while I won’t tell my roommates until she’s ready, there is someone who needs to know.

So I head upstairs, sit on the edge of my bed, and text my mom.

Me: Got a minute?

Her: In 20, baby! Finishing a color for Mrs. Nelson.

I spend the next twenty minutes googling shit about babies. I hadn’t allowed myself to do that before. I didn’t know if Sabrina was going to keep the baby, and if she’d decided to go through with the abortion, I didn’t want to become attached and then be heartbroken.

Now, I’m free to throw myself into fatherhood. Unlike Sabrina, I’m not feeling as terrified about it anymore. I’ve always envisioned myself having a family. Granted, I didn’t think it was going to happen for a while, at least not until I was done with college, had a good business, and was making decent coin. But life is always changing and you just have to adapt.

I do some sloppy math in the margin of my business property notes about whether I can buy a home in Boston and quickly realize that I can’t afford to buy a business and a house on the funds my dad left me. Housing is ridiculously expensive in Boston. I guess I’ll have to rent for a while.

Okay. So. I’m going to need a place to live, a job, and I need to figure out what I’m going to do with my fucking life beyond college. I’ve been half-assing the business search because there wasn’t any urgency, but with a kid on the way and Sabrina living in the shithole she’s currently in, I need to get all my ducks in order.

I’m ordering a couple of books on Amazon about pregnancy and parenting when my mother calls.

“Sweetheart! How is everything going? Only a couple more months and you’ll be back home!” she sings into my ear.

My stomach plummets. If there’s one person I hate disappointing, it’s my mom, and me not coming back to Texas is going to crush her. But if I’m honest, I’ve been on the fence about Texas for a while now. In some ways, the baby is saving me from that.

I make a mental note to tell Sabrina this, because I know, in her head, she’s thinking she’s ruined my life.

“Actually, about that. My…” I hesitate, because I don’t know what we are after our little talk this morning. “Girlfriend,” I finish, for lack of a better term. Our relationship is too complicated to go into depth with Mom right now. Besides, I can’t poison that particular well, because Mom’s already going to be upset. “Remember I told you at Christmas I met a girl?”