A one-timer rockets from the blue line.
I throw up my blocker a split second too late, and the puck clips my shoulder pad as it shoots into the net.
The red light flashes, the horn blares, and Calgary leads 3-2.
“Motherfucker!” I resist the urge to smash my stick against the post. Ishould have had that, but my mind isn’t in the game.
Rylan skates over, tapping my pads. “Shake it off, Sinc. There’s still time. We’ll get it back.”
I nod, but we both know. The Broncos tighten up for the final ninety seconds, collapsing around their own net. Coach Shaw pulls me for the extra attacker, but the clock bleeds out. The final horn sounds, and it’s 3-2 Calgary.
It’s like a morgue in the Edmonton visitors’ locker room. Equipment hits the floor with heavy thuds, the usual post-game chatter nowhere to be found. Coach Shaw gives a perfunctory speech about burying this one and focusing on Edmonton tomorrow night, but his eyes are distant. None of us are really focused on the moment.
The guilt is eating me alive. I blew my chance to prove myself in a game that mattered. And why? Because I was too busy worrying about the guy whose job I’m supposed to be trying to take.
It makes no fucking sense.
I feel like an imposter in this locker room. I’m the guy who let in the game-winning goal. Our real hero is lying broken in the other room.
Most of the guys go back to getting undressed after Coach’s speech, peeling off jerseys and unlacing skates, trying to put the loss behind them. I start undoing my own pads, my fingers a little shaky. I want to get the hell out of here. I want to hide in the back of the plane, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and retreat into myself while we fly to Edmonton.
“Sinclair.”
I flinch, looking up.
Rylan is standing over me. He looks exhausted, his normally perfectly composed demeanor slipping a fraction, revealing the worried friend underneath it.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low enough that the guys on either side of me can’t hear.
“Yeah. Fine,” I lie.
He studies me for a second, his eyes shrewd.
“Listen, Lou is in the medical room,” he says, leaning in closer. “I was just in there. He’s not handling this well.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, wincing slightly. “He’s gonna need a hand getting dressed, even though he’s not gonna want to accept help.After you’re cleaned up, could you bring him his clothes and maybe hang out there, help him as much as he’ll let you?”
My stomach twists into a knot. “Uh, sure, I guess? But, uh, wouldn’t he rather someone else help him? I'm probably the last person he wants to see right now.”
Rylan glances toward the mob of reporters standing by the door, making sure they’re not paying attention to us before he leans in. “Look, if I go in there, Lou will put on a show. He’ll crack jokes and pretend he’s fine because he doesn’t want me to worry. It’s what he does.” He pauses to catch my eye. “But he’s scared. He won’t show it to the trainers, and he definitely won’t show it to Coach, but he’s terrified. He needs someone he doesn’t need to protect. You’re his backup and his roommate. He might be prickly with you right now, but I think that might be easier on him than trying to laugh this off, you know?”
That weird instinct to take away whatever is hurting Louis is back. But there’s nothing I can do to help him right now. Except maybe this. Maybe allowing him to be angry or upset or scared without having to worry about taking care of anyone else is what he needs. I can do that for him.
“Yeah,” I say, standing up on legs that are a little shaky. I’m still in my hockey pants, the stink of the loss still clinging to me. “Okay, I got him.”
Rylan claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Sinc. I’ll let him know you’ll be in to help him as soon as you’re showered. Bus leaves in forty-five.”
He turns and heads for the gathered press outside the locker room doors, squaring his shoulders, his confident captain’s mask sliding firmly back into place.
I rush through my shower, and a few minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to the medical room. My heart is hammering against my ribs harder than it was during the game,so I suck in a deep breath through my nose, holding it for a moment to steady myself before stepping inside.
The room smells like rubbing alcohol and bad news. Lou’s sitting on the edge of the exam table, stripped to the waist, with his left side heavily wrapped in compression bandages. He’s staring up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently, almost like he’s counting to himself. His skin is white as a ghost, and when he sees me step into the room, his jaw clenches so tight I half expect his teeth to crack.
Carson Wells, our GM, is standing off to one side with his arms crossed. His face is impassive, but his eyes are worried. I might be new to the NHL, but I know he wouldn’t be down here if Lou’s injury wasn’t serious. Meanwhile, Coach Shaw is pacing near the sink.
“We don’t have enough info yet,” Doc Kendall says calmly. He’s wearing that carefully neutral expression they must teach doctors to perfect in medical school—the one they use when things are shit, but they don’t want anyone to freak out. “The X-rays were negative for breaks, but from my exam, we could be looking at a grade 3 tear. Pectoralis major, possibly involving the anterior deltoid.”
Louis doesn’t look away from the ceiling, but he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What do you think, George?” Carson asks. “Do we fly him back to Seattle tonight?”
