The puck settles on Jamie's stick like it belongs there. One lightning quick move and he buries it top shelf.
Fifteen seconds in.
Jamie's smile blazes as he crashes into me, our teammates piling on. His joy is contagious. For a moment, I'm fifteen again, celebrating with Nick after a perfect give-and-go just like that one.
We build momentum off that first shift. Jamie anticipates my passes before I make them. I find him in spaces that shouldn't exist. It's effortless, instinctive—like we've played together for years.
We connect again. This time I drive wide, drawing the defense. Jamie loops high, patient. I feel him without looking, just like I used to sense Nick. My backhand pass finds himeasily.
Another goal. Another celebration.
The bench is buzzing. Even Austin's usual scowl softens when Jamie sets him up for a one-timer that makes it 3-0 before the first period is over.
"Holy shit, Cap,"Charlie pants during a line change."You and Pirelli are fucking magic out there."
He's right. Jamie reads the game at my speed, and he sees the plays develop the way I do. The way Nick did.
For some reason, the memory of playing with my brother doesn't hurt like itusuallydoes. Instead, it fuels something warm in my chest as Jamie and I connect for another scoring chance. Nick would have loved this—the pure joy of hockey played at its highest level.
For the first time in years, I'm not playing the system. I'm playing the game.
Unfortunately, the magic doesn't last. Their defense tightens up, collapsing around Jamie and me whenever we cross the blue line. What worked in the first period turns into turnovers and odd-man rushes the other way, and by the end of the second period, the San Diego Destroyers have tied it up at 3.
The third period starts with a mess. A bad line change leads to their go-ahead goal, and we're behind for the first time all night at 4-3.
Our frustration mounts with each missed opportunity. Pirelli and I are still connecting, but the finishing touch has disappeared. We're all trying to recapture that first-period magic instead of playing smart.
By halfway through the third, Coach has managed to settle us down a bit. Jamie creates chance after chance as we push hard for the tying goal.
With two minutes left, Coach Shaw pulls Louis for an extra attacker, so we're six-on-five.
But their goalie stands on his head, knocking away everything we throw at him, and the final buzzer sounds with the final score of 4-3, Destroyers.
It's like a punch to the gut. A preseason loss shouldn't hurt this much, but the disappointment on my teammates' faces cuts deep. We had this game, and we let it slip away.
Motherfucker.
JAMIE
The locker room reeks of defeat and frustration as we file in. My gear's soaked through with sweat, and the weight of our 4-3 loss hangs heavy. My first game with the Sasquatch, and we couldn't hold onto a three-goal lead.
Rylan's already at his stall,methodicallyunlacing his skates. His phone sits on the bench beside him, and he keeps glancing at it. His jaw tightens each time it buzzes, which it's doing a lot.
Riley appears in the doorway, a sympathetic grimace on her face."Sorry guys, but the media's waiting."First loss of preseason, new players, new coach—they'reprobablycircling like sharks.
Before Rylan can look up from his phone, which has just buzzed yet again, Lou jumps to his feet."I got this one."His voice carries that same easy tone he uses for everything. It's like he's volunteering to grab coffee instead of facing down a room full of reporters after a brutal loss.
Louis catches Rylan's eye for a second. Most people would miss it, but I'm watching. There's a whole conversation in that moment: Louis offering cover, Rylan's silent thanks.
Austin's moving too, his broad shoulders creating a wall between the media entrance and Rylan's stall. It's subtle but deliberate. He positions himself like he's organizing his gear,but the angle's perfect to block any ambitious reporter trying to sneak a photo or catch Rylan's attention.
"C'mon, rookie,"Louis calls out to Tanner."Time to learn the fun part of the job."He throws an arm around our backup goalie's shoulders, steering him toward the door with that infectious grin.
The defeated silence continues after Louis leads Tanner out. Charlie's the first to break it, tossing his sweaty jersey into the laundry bin with theatrical flair.
"Well, that was a bit shit. Who wants to cheer up with late-night poutine? I found this place that uses real Quebec cheese curds."
A few weak chuckles ripple through the room. Charlie's got a gift for diffusing tension. Maybe it's because he's British. Everything sounds better with that accent.
