Their third shooter is their captain, and I know from previous run-ins that he’s the best player on their team, by far. He takes his time skating in, and I can see the confidence inevery move he makes. He’s done this a thousand times before, and it shows.
He fakes left, but I don’t take the bait. He fakes right, and I still hold my ground. Then he goes high, and the puck is past me before I can react.
The red light flashes. The crowd goes fucking crazy. And just like that, we lose.
I immediately feel the cold, familiar weight of responsibility. Of knowing that I let my team down again. Around me, they’re already processing it in their own ways. Theo slams his stick against the ice. Sawyer skates over to tap his stick against my pads, saying something in a reassuring tone that I’m not even trying to hear right now. Noah just shakes his head and starts toward the bench.
They’re justifiably pissed off and frustrated. But I know most of them are already moving past it and thinking about the next game, or their next meal, or getting laid at the hotel tonight.
Sometimes I wish my brain worked that way.
Instead, I follow behind the group as we skate off the ice, moving as slowly and mechanically as the robot they always accuse me of being.
I’m replaying every mistake and providing my own harsh commentary. What the fuck was that angle I took on that third shot? Where was my head? Or the way I leaned too far to my left, leaving the top corner of the goal exposed. That split-second hesitation at the end cost us the whole damn game.
I should have been better. I should have read him faster and moved quicker.
My leg is throbbing constantly now, but this sick feeling in my gut is what’s really tearing me up inside.
The locker room is a mix of two parts frustration and one part forced optimism. I strip off my pads in silence, going through the motions I’ve repeated thousands of times. Chestprotector. Leg pads. Skates. Each piece of equipment gets placed in its designated spot, the routine offering some small measure of control on a night that completely got away from me.
I head straight for the ice bath, lowering myself into the frigid water with a sharp inhale. The cold bites into my skin, numbing everything, including the ache in my knee. I stay under longer than usual, letting the ice do its work.
When I finally climb out and make my way to the showers, I can hear the guys doing their usual post-game analysis. Dissecting plays. Arguing about what went wrong. Planning where they’re going tonight to blow off steam.
“There’s a club on Washington Avenue that’s supposed to be good,” Declan says as I towel off and start wrapping my knee. “My buddy came through last month and said?—”
“I’m in,” Theo cuts in. “Anything to forget that third period.”
“You mean the shootout,” Reese grunts.
“I mean all of it.”
I tune them out and focus on getting the compression wrap exactly right. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just enough support without cutting off circulation.
“Man, we needed April and Heather in the crowd tonight,” Theo says, his voice carrying across the room. “Those two are like good luck charms or something. We’ve won, what, the last six games they’ve been at? We were missing the hurricane.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Hurricane. My nickname for her. The one I use when I want to make her come. The one I use when I’m buried inside her, when she’s falling apart in my arms, when it’s just the two of us and nothing else exists.
It’s mine. She’s mine.
But Theo doesn’t know that. None of them do. To them, it’s just a friendly nickname they’ve heard me use in passing. Something casual and meaningless.
I force myself to keep wrapping my knee, to keep my expression neutral even as that possessive feeling threatens to win out against my good sense.
“Pretty sure our luck has nothing to do with who is or isn’t in the stands,” I say, because I apparently can’t help myself.
“I don’t know, man. The stats don’t lie.” Theo grins. “Maybe we should fly them out to away games.”
“Or maybe we should focus on playing better defense,” I shoot back, yanking the wrap tight.
A few eyebrows shoot up, Theo’s most of all, but the conversation moves on. Now they’re talking about plans for tomorrow’s practice, but I’ve finally tuned out most of their voices. I finish changing in silence, pulling on my suit and thinking back on everything that went wrong.
My team was counting on me to do better and play harder, and I let them down.
There are only two things keeping me sane these days—hockey and Heather. And I feel like I’ve lost a little piece of both tonight.
