I made the deal.
For considerations to be decided later, I became the world’s greatest goaltender.
The next step was to get noticed.
I managed, after some time, to track down a GM while he was at dinner. I made my way to his table and gave him my proposal.
“Give me a tryout,” I told him. “As soon as a goal goes in, I’ll leave the ice and you’ll never hear from me again. You can even have security waiting. But if nobody scores, I sign a contract.”
He nearly choked on his steak, but I could tell that I had him. He checked his phone.
“7 am. Tuesday. Meet me at gate 16.”
The appointed time came, and I waited nervously outside the arena. I hoped I wasn’t going to severely embarrass myself.
“Let’s get this over with,” the GM said as he opened the door hurriedly.
I stepped onto the ice and skated to the net. Three members of the fourth line arranged themselves just beyond the faceoff dots.
“Ok, go,” the coach instructed. The GM watched from the bench.
The first player wound up and took a shot.
I could see the puck travelling towards me at great speed. But I could also see a faint trail of where it was going to go. I simply reached out and plucked it from the air.
“Hmpf,” said the coach. “Again.”
The next player shot and the same thing happened. I could see where the puck was travelling to, and I stopped it easily.
I got the contract.
And posted a shutout streak of 46 games. It was ridiculous.
After the game when the first goal went in, the GM met me in the locker room.
“I’ve got security here with me,” he said, laughing.
I laughed, too. It was a miserable, unfeeling, forced sound. What was the point of winning without a soul?