Thedefensemanstripsthepuck clean off my stick and sends it flying down the ice. The crowd’s collective groan echoes through the arena, while I’m left standing there like a fucking statue, but it’s nothing compared to the cavernous pit in my gut.
Two minutes left. Tie game. Against a team with a losing record.
And I just blew a breakaway I could make in my sleep.
Or at least, I could’ve made in my sleep if Whitney hadn’t informed me this afternoon that McKenna was called into HR this morning. Because with four unanswered voicemails and twenty texts all left on Read, my imagination’s running wild with worst-case scenarios.
I take off down the ice and seize control of the puck again. This time, I’m ready. Except I’m not. I telegraph my pass so badly their center picks it off and breaks away toward our goal. Derekhas to bail me out with a desperate poke check, shooting me a look that clearly says,what the hell?
I’ve been playing hockey for twenty years. I don’t miss easy reads. I don’t blow coverage. I sure as hell don’t leave my teammates hanging.
But right now, all I can think about is McKenna curled against my chest this morning, her hair spilling across my shoulder, a satisfied smile that made me want to wake her up for more.
I told her last night we’d ‘figure it out.’ Turns out tomorrow came with an HR blindside before I could see her again.
Their center lines me up for a clean check along the boards. I see it coming. Hell, I even brace for impact but somehow, still end up on my ass. When I scramble to my feet, something inside me snaps.
The frustration I’ve carried all day explodes. I line up their defenseman and deliver a check that’s three seconds late and twice as hard as necessary. His helmet flies off as he crashes into the boards.
The whistle screams through the arena. The ref’s arm shoots up. “Boarding! Number twelve, Phoenix! Two minutes!”
The sold-out arena erupts. Angry fans bang their fists against the glass, their frustration echoing through the building like thunder. I risk a glance at the bench. Coach looks as if he’s ready to murder someone. And it ain’t the ref.
Shit.
The penalty box gate clangs shut, trapping me in this glass cage while my team scrambles to kill the powerplay I just handed our opponents on a silver fucking platter. I slam my stick against the boards, and the sound echoes through the box like a gunshot. This isn’t me. I’m the guy who stays calm under pressure, the captain who makes smart plays when everything’s on the line.
Instead, I’m sitting here like a spectator while my team plays four-on-five because I couldn’t keep my emotions in check. Through the glass, I watch Petrov win a face-off in our zone. Thirty seconds left on my penalty. Ninety seconds left in the game. My chest feels tight, as if I can’t get enough air.
McKenna was called in to face the repercussions of what happened between us alone. And knowing her, she probably blamed herself. Took the fall to protect me. If she was fired when no one even asked me a single question, I’m going to—
The penalty expires. I dart out from the box, ready to make up for my mistake—
“Stevens! Mitchell! Go!”
Coach’s voice cuts through the arena noise, but he’s not calling my name. I skate toward the bench, expecting the line change, but he won’t meet my eyes.
I’m benched. In the final minute of a tied game.
The humiliation burns hotter than any check I’ve ever taken.
I sink onto the bench, gripping my stick so hard my knuckles go white. Around me, guys shout encouragement to the players on the ice, but their voices sound muffled, distant.
With twelve seconds left, Connor scores on a wrist shot that finds the top corner. The arena explodes. My teammates mob him against the boards while I sit here like dead weight, completely immobile.
We won. Despite my complete meltdown, we won. And somehow, it feels like salt in a wound.
The locker room empties fast after the game. Guys offer congratulations to Connor before grabbing their gear and heading out. Most give me a wide berth, with only Conner stopping to thank me again for the advice on his technique the other day. I nod, not making eye contact.
Finally, Derek, slinging his bag over a shoulder, car keys in hand, pauses in front of me. “You good?”
I shoot him a look and don’t answer. What can I say?No, I played like shit because the woman I love isn’t answering my calls?
Derek’s known me since junior league. He knows full well I’m notgood. But he’s also smart enough not to push the issue at the moment.
“Alright, man. See you tomorrow.”
Tommy and the rest of the equipment staff start their cleanup routine, the familiar sounds of gear being sorted into bins. I’m still sitting in my stall, skates half-unlaced, when Coach appears in the doorway.
