“Coach, I know the last couple weeks have been rough, but... ”
“Rough?” He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, studying me like a problem he can’t solve. “Barnes, you’ve let in twelve goals in the last three practices. Twelve. My eight-year-old nephew could have stopped half of them.”
The words sting because they’re true. My game’s been slipping for weeks. And when Zane showed up, everything just exploded.
“I know I’ve been off, but I’m working on it. I can do my job.”
“Can you? Because what I see is a goalie who can’t focus long enough to track a puck from the blue line to the net.” Enver leans forward, his voice dropping. “I don’t know what’s eating at you but I can’t keep putting you in the net when you’re playing like someone who’s never seen a hockey stick before.”
The humiliation burns my chest. Four years of being the backbone of this team, and now I’m getting benched for a kid who’s probably texting his parents right now about getting his first start.
“How long?” I ask.
“How long what?”
“How long am I riding the bench?”
Enver shrugs. “Until you figure out whatever’s broken and fix it. Could be one game, could be the rest of the season. That’s up to you.”
The rest of the season. Christ. It’s my contract year. I could be finished before Christmas. My career in Oakland could be over before I turn twenty-seven.
“The team flies out at noon,” Enver continues, like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my life. “You’re still traveling. Backup goalies don’t sit in the press box at home while their team’s on the road.”
Right. I get to travel with the team, suit up in my gear, and watch from the bench while Parker plays my position. In front of a national television audience that will speculate about why Oakland’s starting goalie is on the bench.
“Okay,” I manage to croak out.
“Good. And Barnes? Use this time to get your head straight. Figure out what’s more important - your pride or your career.”
I walk out of his office, my stomach churning. By the time I reach the locker room, word has already started to spread. I can tell by the way conversations die a quick death when I walk in, by the way my teammates avoid making eye contact as I pass.
Nothing travels faster in a hockey locker room than bad news.
Masterson looks up from packing his gear bag. “Hey.”
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and shake my head, hoping he gets the message that I don’t want to talk.
He nods and goes back to his packing, watching me out of the corner of his eye. The whole room’s watching me. Trying to figure out how their starting goalie went from solid veteran to total crap .
If only I could tell them.
Parker walks in twenty minutes later, trying to look casual but failing. He can’t help the smile spreading across his face. His first NHL start, and it’s because the guy he’s replacing fell apart so spectacularly that the coach had no choice.
“Tate,” he says quietly, stopping by my locker. “I just wanted to say... ”
“It’s fine, Parker.” I look up at him, this kid who’s about to live his dream because I can’t handle mine. “You earned this. Play your game.”
He nods and walks away, but I can see the relief in his shoulders. Whatever he thought I was going to say, it sure as hell wasn’t that.
I can’t be mad at the kid. He’s worked his ass off for two years, never complained about riding the bench, always ready to go. This is his shot, and he deserves it.
I’m the one who fucked up my own career.
I finish packing my gear bag, trying to ignore everyone’s stares. By the time the bus leaves for the airport, the whole teamknows I’m benched. The conversations are quiet, and nobody talks to me.
Nothing kills team morale like watching your starting goalie self-destruct.
The flight to Phoenix is torture.
