Page 94 of The Goalie in Room 1

With less than two minutes remaining in the third period, my team was down by one. They spent most of those two minutes trapped in their own zone while Cash offered commentary no one had asked for.

“Defenseman’s about to pinch,” he said.

“He has support.”

“Not enough.”

Colorado forced the puck past him and caught Los Angeles in a two-on-one going the other direction.

Cash held out his hand.

I slapped it away. “Fuck off.”

His laugh filled the living room.

The goalie left the net, giving Los Angeles the extra attacker. Cash sat forward, nearly dumping the bowl of popcorn between us.

“Come on,” I muttered.

“They’re not scoring.”

“Shut up.”

“They’re definitely not scoring.”

A shot from the point hit traffic in front of the net. The puck bounced off a skate, disappeared beneath three bodies, then slid across the line.

I jumped from the couch, both hands in the air.

“Showoff,” Cash grumbled, then said, “That was garbage.”

“That was a goal,” I said, settling back on the couch.

“That was not a goal. It was luck. Your guy kicked it in.”

“It went in off the defenseman.”

“Still a skate. Which means luck, not skill.”

“Not our skate.”

“You people will celebrate anything.”

“You’re sitting in my house, eating my popcorn.”

“I made the popcorn.”

“With my kernels.”

Cash rolled his eyes while the officials reviewed the goal. When the ruling on the ice stood, the game went to overtime.

“Did they all go blind suddenly?” Cash blamed the shooters, gesturing wildly after every missed shootout attempt.

By the time the broadcast ended, the popcorn bowl was empty and half its contents were scattered across the sectional and floor.

I looked at the mess.

Cash followed my gaze. “Roomba.”