The tiniest bead of sweat dropped from the tip of her nose, falling between the crisscrossed titanium bars of the mask only to disappear into the frozen bed of ice beneath. Deep, methodic breaths are heard as she stared down at the blue-paint in front of the goal. She stood there, crouched over; silent. Her bright blue eyes closed momentarily to shut out the world to focus on the situation. A tied score had pushed the game into overtime, and now, into a shootout. Each team would use three players to shoot on the goalie one-on-one. Two shooters had their chance against her-and neither of them prevailed. Only one left. If he misses, the game is over. Her team would have won. She would have won.
The all too familiar sound of the referee whistle echoes down the rink, its rigid, ear-splitting shriek breaking her silent thoughts and forcing her to quickly come back to reality. It was now or never.
Her eyes shot open, head lifting up with only a focusing stare radiating from her hidden face. Her stance widened, causing her body to slide outward from her position. She stared: eyes fixed on the red jersey skating towards her with the tenacity of a burning flame. The black, rubber saucer he pushed along the ice came ever closer to its proper home-the back of the net. Not today, she thought, this is my game.
She inched backwards now as the shooter closed in. He moved the puck side to side with each stride, his own eyes fixed on she who stood between him and the empty net behind her. He watched her every move, looking for an open space. Glove side? No, she had that covered. Stick side? Again, still no daylight. Through the legs; five-hole? She was already in a wide stance-ready to drop down and butterfly in a split-second. Less and less time to choose as the space between them grew ever smaller. A quick deke would be his best option in this case. Trying to fake a goalie out is usually successful. Usually.
Her leg-pads dropped to the ice, her thighs squeezing their ends together as she dropped down into the butterfly position. The shooter was only several feet away and had not shot yet. She almost pondered the thought before suddenly the entire scenario slowed down, like the slow motion segment of a movie. She found herself able to move freely and quickly, as if this now sluggish passage of time had no effect on her, but only on everything else. The puck slid towards her no faster than a snail could run, but she could not help but think exactly who was shooting against her. She normally made that a point beforehand-to know who she would face-to know their tendencies. But this...this was different. She had no clue who this was or how he would take his shot. Then, as if to try an answer this question, her eyes slowly drifted up from the puck and up to the shooter's face, trying to see if she could see who it was.
She squinted some behind her mask as his face came into view more. That remarkably foot-ball shaped head and shreds of blonde hair under his helmet were a remarkably familiar trait, but her brain could not tell why. She studied him more as he approached; now seeming to gain speed. The slowed time now had begun to slide back towards real-time reality. Just as she looked up at his eyes, he looked back at hers. And then it hit her. A sudden chill went down her spine-a shivering array of goose bumps sliding down her arms and legs at the realization. What the hell was he doing here? She had virtually no time to ponder the thought as the time sped back up to normal speed. She gasped sharply, noticing he was about to take his shot-and she was nowhere near the right position to stop it. The puck was now headed for an open net. She dove out to stop the flying puck, kicking one of her leg pads out in desperation.
Thud. The puck smacked into the top-half of her pad and fumbled into the air, rolling before plopping back onto the ice. It now inched toward the red line between the goal posts. She gasped deeper this time, realizing its path and diving towards the puck behind her. Her glove reached out again to pounce on it; to pull it into the safety of her pads.
It barely began to touch the goal line, her glove inches from it, when a sudden, loud buzzing blasted through the rink with a rhythmic tempo, it's straining echoes bringing complete darkness with them. With a deep breath and groggy moan, the blonde-haired girl rolled over in her bed, her arm slithering out from the covers and bringing a finger to click off her morning alarm clock. She buried her face into the pillow, wanting only to continue her dream-filled slumber. The goose bumps were still on her arms even amidst the warm cover of her blanket. The tension in her back muscles released finally, letting her relax briefly in bed.
All too soon the familiar, almost nasally voice called from the stairs.
"Hel-ga! Get-uh-hup!"
Miriam. She always had perfect timing, didn't she? Helga grunted under her breath, forcing an eye half-open.
"Okay, okay! I'm getting up! Criminy..." She cursed the morning. It always came too soon.
Helga pushed herself up onto her palms, glancing over at the clock. Seven A.M. It's too early for this crap, she thought. She sighed, irritated, before kicking off her covers and getting out of bed. Today was the start of a new week at school-something Helga preferred to go without, frankly. She never cared much for school, and wanted to spend as little time and effort there as possible. There were more important things in her life now. Especially since him... She shook her head, lightly, purging the thought away. That was almost six years ago now. He was gone. It didn't matter...right? Right.
She proceeded to put on her daily outfit. She slid on her pink socks at the edge of her bed. She grabbed her blue jeans off the back of her vanity chair and put them on. Thumbing through her closet briefly, she pulled out a gray t-shirt bearing a faded, unreadable logo. Finally, she slid on her royal blue baseball cap, adorned with the Saint Louis Blues hockey team logo on the front. Though typically not a Blues fan (having grown up in New York Rangers territory), the Saint Louis logo reflected something she thought abandoned her a long time ago: hope.
Helga shuffled down the stairs, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a quick slice of toast for breakfast. She gulped a glass of orange juice before grabbing her jacket and book bag near the front door. The brisk November air howled at the doorway, making it just slightly more difficult to close, and proving that her thin jacket was indeed not sufficient. Helga didn't care. She played ice hockey. She was used to the cold. The faint sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Cold and rainy. Perfect. Helga sighed, glancing up at the grey sky with her usual empty expression before stepping down the stoop and onto the sidewalk. She zipped up her jacket a little further for warmth.
Her mind began to wander. Today was the first game of the season for her team-and she was the starting goaltender. Helga had practiced since the end of last season, improving her skills for this year all summer long. Why? This year was special. College teams would be scouting for valuable players. They might scout her team. They might draft her. They just might even offer her a scholarship.
Scholarship. There was a word that Helga never thought would have any meaning for her. Her whole life had been nothing special to speak of. Her schoolwork grades reflected this and her overall attitude towards her school. But now things were different. When Dr. Bliss recommended Helga to find a hobby, she was skeptical, to say the least. Perhaps, even, defiant at first.
After finding herself at one of the school's hockey games, however, her thoughts quickly changed. She actually enjoyed watching it. More specifically, she enjoyed watching the goalies. That position somehow spoke to her. What was it about letting people shoot rubber pucks at you that caught her eye? One could speculate; perhaps it was the nobility of the position, or the simplicity of it. But Helga saw the real value in the job: being the difference maker. The goalie keeps the puck out of the net: the difference between a goal and a save: the difference between winning and losing. Suddenly it mattered. Suddenly, she mattered...
Helga decided to give it a try, and now four years later, she is the starting goaltender for her high school hockey team. Some would call it remarkable. Helga was just happy to actually be noticed for a change. Especially since he left... Helga winced at the thought of him, stopping in mid-step and letting out an exacerbated sigh.
"Get out of my head!" she spat out through clenched teeth. The thought of him was not something she was prepared to tolerate now. Just then, a delicate, squeaky voice called her name.
"Helga?" Helga's eyes shot open; head twirling around in the direction of the voice. Phoebe. Helga sighed, relieved. The one thing in her life that seemed normal.
"Hey, Pheebs," Helga greeted her casually, bearing a half-smile. Phoebe had not changed much since their grade-school days. Same smarts, same personality, same outfit. Some things never change.
"Are you okay, Helga?" Phoebe always
Helga immediately scoffed, turning away.
"I'm fine." Helga spat out in an oddly monotone voice.
"Are you sure? I heard you yelling-"
"I'm fine, Phoebe." Helga interrupted, glaring at her friend with annoyed eyes. Phoebe backed off the subject, biting her bottom lip. After a few steps, Helga chirped up.
"I'm sorry, Phoebe. I'm just stressed out about the game tonight."
"Stressed? But you've never been stressed before for a game."
The two crossed the street in front of the school.
"This is different," Helga protested.
"How?"
Helga paused. "It's the first game of the year and I want to start off right."
The two stopped in front of the school concrete steps.
"Oh. I thought it was because of...well, you know..." Phoebe blinked at Helga, who did not understand what was implied.
"What?"
Phoebe rolled her eyes nervously.
"...Ice cream?"
Helga blinked. Suddenly the realization hit her.
"Ph-Phoebe!" She exclaimed at her friend, brow crossed. "I told you to never bring him up! Ever!" Helga yelled at her best friend. Phoebe sank down, wincing at Helga's outburst.
"I-I'm sorry, Helga," Phoebe chirped up, "I just thought... I mean, it'll be six years tomorrow..."
Helga shook her head, gritting her teeth.
"I don't give a shit, Pheebs. Ice cream's dead to me. Being a goalie is all I care about now, okay? Just forget it." Helga spat out, crossing her arms over her chest before turning to stomp up the front steps of the school on her way to class, leaving Phoebe behind.
Phoebe sighed, looking down at her feet.
"Forgetting," she muttered.