Jake skates over during warm-ups, his dark eyes serious.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"You haven't been fine in weeks. You need to leave all the baggage off the ice. The team needs you."
"I know."
He tilts his head. "I've watched you disappear this season, Dec. You're here, but you're not here. And tonight, we need all of you."
I want to tell him about Gregory, how everything is falling apart and I don't know how to stop it. But the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I just nod, leave the locker room, and go to the rink.
The game is a disaster from the first drop of the puck.
My timing is off. My passes miss their targets. I'm half a second too slow on every play, my mind somewhere else while my body goes through the motions. In the second period, Tyler sets me up for an open net, the kind of shot I could make in my sleep.
I miss. The puck hits the post and bounces away.
The crowd groans. My teammates' frustration is palpable.
By the third period, we're down by two. Coach benches me with five minutes left, and I can't even argue. I watch from the sidelines as the team fights desperately to stay alive. Misha makes save after impossible save. Ty and Connor throw their bodies into every defensive play.
But it's not enough.
The buzzer sounds. Overtime. And I'm still on the bench.
We lose three minutes into OT from a defensive breakdown that might not have happened if I'd been on the ice. It definitely wouldn't have happened if my head had been in the game.
The locker room afterward is silent. Guys strip off their gear, faces blank. The season isn't over yet. We’re down 1-2 and still have at least two more chances. But it feels like a wake.
I sit in my stall in full gear, unable to move.
"Hawthorne." Coach's voice cuts through the silence. "I want you in my office, now."
The walk feels like a death march. I close the door behind me, and Coach Petrov leans against his desk, arms crossed. His weathered face is unreadable.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
"I had an off night."
"You've had an off month." He studies me. "This isn't about hockey. The Dr. Chandler thing is eating you alive from the inside, and it's destroying this team."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't win games." He sighs, some of the anger draining away. "You're one of the best players I've coached, but you're playing like a ghost of yourself. If you can't get your head straight by the next game, I'm scratching you. We need players who are present, not bodies taking up ice time."
The words should sting. Instead, they just feel inevitable.
I return to the locker room. Most of the guys have already left. Jake is sitting quietly. When he sees me, he stands.
"Everyone," he calls out. "Hold up."
The few remaining players stop, turning to face him. Word must spread fast because guys who were halfway out the door file back in. Within minutes, the whole team is assembled.
Jake doesn't raise his voice.
