“Nah, that didn’t go anywhere.” I made that shit up to throw the guys off. There was no brunette. There hasn’t been anyone since Amanda, and being in that situationship should’ve won me an Oscar.
Masterson shrugs. “Eh, there are plenty of fish in the sea, right?”
“Right.”
The rest of practice passes in a blur. Parker looks solid, the team is confident in their goalie, and I feel like a spectator at my own career funeral.
When we take the ice for the game a couple of hours later, things get worse.
For me, at least.
I suit up in my gear, even though I won’t see the ice unless Parker gets injured. The familiar routine of taping my stick and adjusting my pads feels like putting on a costume for a play I’m not in.
The arena is packed. Phoenix fans are in rare form and loud as hell, anxious to see if their Scorpions can knock off a Western Conference contender. The energy is electric, the kind that usually gets my blood pumping.
Tonight, it just makes me feel empty.
I sit on the bench next to Coach Enver, watching Parker take his warm-up laps. He looks calm, focused. Everything a starting goalie should be.
Everything I used to be.
“He’s ready,” Enver says, more to himself than to me.
The game starts, and I watch from the bench as Parker settles into the net. The first shot comes five minutes in, a weak wrist shot from the point. Parker swallows it, no rebound.
The bench erupts.
“Way to go, Parker!” Jaren yells.
The second shot comes midway through the first period. A two-on-one that should be routine for any NHL goalie. Parker reads it perfectly, slides across his crease, and makes the save look easy.
Another cheer from the bench. And my heart sinks lower.
By the end of the first period, Phoenix had put twelve shots on net. Parker’s stopped them all. Clean saves, good positioning, textbook goaltending.
Everything I haven’t been doing lately.
“Kid’s got ice in his veins,” Cam says during the intermission.
“Natural feel for the position,” Carter says, downing a bottle of water.
I nod and pretend to agree, but inside I’m crumbling. Watching your replacement succeed is torture enough. Listening to your teammates praise him while you sit there useless is a special kind of hell.
The second period is more of the same. Parker stops everything Phoenix throws at him. A power play save that has the Raptors on their feet. A breakaway that he handles like he’s been starting in the NHL for years.
Meanwhile, I sit on the bench and wonder if this is what the end of a career feels like. Not a dramatic injury or a trade. Just... fading into the background while someone better takes your place.
In the third period, Phoenix pulls their goalie with two minutes left, down by one. Six attackers against five defenders and Parker in net. The arena’s on its feet, the noise deafening.
Phoenix takes a shot from the point. Parker kicks it away.
Then there’s a rebound in front. He covers it.
With fifteen seconds left, Parker stands tall in his net, cool as a fucking cucumber while chaos rages around him.
The final buzzer sounds. Oakland wins three to one. It’s Parker’s first NHL victory, a near-shutout performance that has the entire team mobbing him on the ice.
I should congratulate him. But I can’t make myself move. So I watch from the bench as my teammates lift him up, slapping his mask. Parker’s laughing, his face bright with joy.
