Their center picked it up at the red line. Already moving. Already gone.
Breakaway.
I watched it happen. Watched our goalie challenge, square to the shooter, trying to cut the angle. Their guy deked left, dragging the puck right. The puck slipped past our goalie's outstretched pad.
Five-hole.
Net.
Goal.
The horn blared. Their bench emptied. Game over.
I stood at center ice, stick resting on my knees, chest heaving. Around me, my teammates were doing the same—bent over, breathing hard, trying to process what had just happened.
We'd lost.
Pickle skated past me, helmet off, eyes red. "I should've—if I'd just—"
"You played your heart out," I said. "We all did."
Jake appeared on my other side, one glove off, hair plastered to his forehead. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
Evan joined us silently, and the four of us stood there while the other team celebrated. Our fans tried to figure out whether they were allowed to clap.
The applause started. Slow at first, then building—Thunder Bay on its feet, not for the win we didn't get, but for the game we'd given them.
I looked up at the stands. Rhett stood. Not disappointed or leaving. He was watching, waiting, and present.
The kids still held their banner, crooked letters and all.
We'd lost the game, but I hadn't lost anything that mattered.
By the time we skated off, the crowd was still applauding. Coach Rusk stood at the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, watching each of us file past. When I reached him, he grabbed my shoulder.
"Proud of you," he said.
The locker room was a tomb.
Nobody moved. With helmets half off and gloves still on, everyone stared at the floor like the concrete might offer answers. I dropped onto the bench at my stall and started unlacing my skates. My hands were shaking.
Across from me, Pickle sat with his elbows on his knees, face buried in his gloves. His shoulders shook once. Jake put a hand on his back but didn't say anything.
I braced myself for Coach Rusk's entrance. For the tirade about missed assignments and bad decisions. For being told we'd let Thunder Bay down. For—
The door opened.
Coach walked in, ball cap still backward, and stopped in the middle of the room. His gaze swept over all of us—taking inventory and reading the temperature.
His voice was rough but steady. "You played with heart tonight. Every damn shift."
Pickle looked up.
"That goal in overtime?" Coach continued. "Bad bounce. Happens. But you didn't quit. Not in the third when they had momentum. Not in overtime when you were exhausted. You kept showing up." He paused. "That's what I'll remember. Not the score."
Jake's voice cracked slightly. "We lost, Coach."
