And then the scream comes. “FUCK—!” It tears out of him, echoing off the glass, loud enough that the entire arena hears it, every fan, every ref, every goddamn Hawk.
The crowd falls silent.
Hawks fans gape. Our bench goes stiff. Cole lets out a low whistle while Shane, still on the ice, mutters a quiet, “Shit.”
Elias storms down the tunnel, shoulders squared and trembling, every breath spilling fire as rage coils off him in waves.
And I’m already moving. I drop my gloves on the bench and plant one foot on the boards, ready to chase him down, ready to drag him back from whatever spiral he’s about to sink into—but then—
“Kade.” Coach’s voice slices through the noise.
I freeze and turn toward him. He’s standing at the end of the bench, arms crossed, cigar clamped between his teeth even though it’s unlit. His eyes are steady. Hard. “Let him cool off byhimself,” he says, calm but resolute. “You’re not always gonna be there after every loss.”
I bristle. “He’s not—”
“He’s not a rookie anymore,” Coach snaps, sharp enough to cut through the tension still hanging in the air. His eyes lock on mine like he’s challenging me to argue. “You made him a center. You gave him that line. You want him to lead?” He jerks his chin toward the tunnel without breaking eye contact. “Then let him learn how to lose.”
I clench my jaw hard enough it aches. No one else speaks. The rest of the bench sits in a tight, waiting silence, like they’re watching a fuse burn down between us. Cole is watching me too, quiet for once, his usual smart-ass grin nowhere in sight.
I glance toward the tunnel. Then I look back at the ice. Elias is gone, but the weight of him—the echo of that scream, that heartbreak—is still lodged in my chest.
And yeah, maybe Coach is right. Maybe Elias needs to be alone right now. Maybe this is part of it. The failure. The fury. Maybe this is what it looks like to become the kind of player who doesn’t break when the game does.
But fuck, I hate it.
I sit back down on the bench, slow and stiff. My hands rest uselessly in my lap as I stare at the ice and wait for my heartbeat to slow.
We lost Game 4. Again. On their ice. The series is tied—two wins each—and now we’re back in Ravensburg with two games at home, the weight of it pressing down like a curse.
And I’m sitting on Damian’s couch, hunched forward, hands limp between my knees while the TV’s playing the replay on a loop. Hawks scoring that final goal in Game 4, our defense lagging by half a breath, Cole crashing into the boards screaming, Shane sprawling for the puck and missing by inches. Damian yelling from the bench. Me skating too slow. Me watching it happen. Me doing nothing.
And I can’t stop watching it.
I’ve watched it six times already.
I rewind again—just the last two minutes. I know I shouldn’t. I know it won’t change a damn thing. But I can’t stop. It’s like I need to memorize every mistake, every twitch, every shift burned into my body until it hurts.
The audio’s off now. Doesn’t matter. I know every word.
I’m in full sweats—the hoodie Damian left me, socks way too big—and my curls are still wet from the shower I took threehours ago, thinking maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, I could wash off the shame boiling under my skin.
It didn’t work.
The only thing I’ve eaten today is a half-dead banana and a protein bar I didn’t even taste.
The news is playing in the background on low volume from Damian’s office, through the open door. Something about playoff pressure. Something about underdog rookies and series momentum and home advantage. I don’t listen to the whole thing. I catch pieces. Enough to want to put my head through the wall.
Damian’s not home.
He’s with Coach. Probably with the others too—Cole, Viktor, Mats, Shane. The vets. The ones who’ve been here before. Who’ve lost and come back and figured out how not to break in half. They’re probably planning lines or watching tape or stabbing their sticks into the locker room floor to summon the ghost of Wayne Gretzky or whatever insane ritual they think’ll fix this.
And I’m here, alone, staring at my own failure in HD
Every time I watch that last shift, I flinch. The moment plays over and over in my head, brutal and slow. The way I turned a second too late. The way I misread the play. The sound of the horn. And worst of all, Damian’s face when the buzzer hit. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Worse.
He looked tired.
