Page 2 of Goalie interference

My challenges.

That was one way to put it.

Some would call it aggressive anger issues, but challenges sounded so much cleaner.

I wasn’t an asshole, okay? I had a short temper, and the best way I’d found to relieve some of the pressure in my head when I got angry was hitting things. Whether that was my stick into the net post or my fist into something hard–it didn’t really matter to me. I just had a tendency to lash out in general, even at my coaches.

Five of them so far, and I was only a Junior. I’d been attending the University of Michigan on a full-ride scholarship for three years now, and I may not have been the nicest, but I brought results. Our team had made it to the Frozen Four both years so far, only losing last year because of an injury they just wouldn't let me play through.

Everyone got so touchy about concussions and ligament tears. I pulled one little tendon in my groin and swore I was fine, but my coach at the time pulled me–let Thompson take my spot and cost us our game.

Our coach, Reed, did what he could to keep us all happy. Half the team consisted of the sons of rich assholes, and the other half were too good to piss off if he wanted to keep winning. I fell into a weird mix because, though he was my coach, goalies usually had a separate coach, specifically for goaltending.

Reed was a great coach…for defensemen and forwards.

Goalies trained differently, played differently, and needed different attention, so as much as I liked Reed, I was forced to suffer through progressively worse goalie coaches. Coaches who looked at me and thought I was just an asshole, but Reed understood me.

Reed understood that I wasn’t an asshole–I was just passionate about the one thing I was good at in this world.

“You’ll like him, Ash–I promise,” he swore, patting my back and sending me off to get showered and changed.

It felt like a weak promise, but I was still hopeful. I knew there had to be a coach out there who I could work with and not end up in a screaming match with–at best.

That one who pulled me from Frozen Four?

He ended up getting fired for putting his hands on me because I pitched a fit about him pulling me.

The one before him?

Quit because I was being difficult.

Before him?

Fired because he accused Reed of giving me special treatment–playing me when I wasn't the best goalie to start.

It came out two months later that his daughter was dating Thompson.

Strings of bad coaches that all boiled down to nothing. I was starting my Junior season, likely one of my last, only really learning or evolving from video studies and just trying to be better than Thompson and Jordan.

Our team had three goalies, but if I had it my way, we'd only need me.

“Ashton Kincaid, Matthew Thompson, and Christian Jordan,” an unfamiliar voice called out to the showers, causing me to pause washing soap off my chest to find its source.

“Back here!” Jordan called out from next to me–he'd definitely be the first to die in a horror movie.

It was just a vibe he gave off.

Footsteps echoed through the emptying shower, coming closer to the back where the three of us were. I already knew this was likely our new coach, so I went back to showering, not bothering to care enough about this one’s name or fake pleasantries–they would mean nothing in two months when he quit or got fired.

“They segregate you guys, or you do that on your own?” the voice asked with a chuckle, deep and rumbly.

“They think goalie weirdness is a catchable disease,” Thompson hummed, smiling back at the guy in fakeness already–he was such a kissup. “I’m Matt, but everyone calls me Tommy.”

“Christian, but I go by Jordy,” Jordan added, raising his eyebrows back at the guy–at least he didn’t fake over-niceness from the jump.

Silence fell over the shower, only the sound of falling water filling the air. I could feel the eyes of my teammates on me, waiting for me to introduce myself, but I'd seen this movie before, and I didn’t like the ending.

“And that must make you Ashton,” the voice sighed, half-chuckling when I just waved a lazy hand back at him. “Real talker, that one,” he teased, making Jordan and Thompson snicker as they shut off their water in almost perfect sync.