But it’s been happening to me a lot lately. Three goals in five games that should have been easy saves. My call with Rex still loops through my head, the words “management concerns” and “performance consistency” stuck on repeat.
The handshake line moves like a funeral procession. Colorado’s players offer the usual “good game” bullshit, but I can see the satisfaction in their eyes. They know they didn’t earn this win. I gave it to them.
By the time I reach the tunnel, my legs feel like concrete. The guys head toward the locker room but I hang back, not wanting to talk to anyone. I don’t even want to meet their eyes.
Reporters wait outside the locker room, of course. Vultures with cameras and microphones, ready to pick apart every mistake.
“Tate, can you walk us through that final goal?”
“Any thoughts on the save percentage nosedive this season?”
I shoot the guy a glare that can melt ice.
“Is there added pressure playing at home?”
I swallow the expletives lodged in my throat and push through them without a word, my blade guards thumping against the concrete floor. Let Coach Enver deal with their questions. He’s the one getting paid to make excuses for my failures.
The locker room is quiet when I walk in. Most of the guys are already out of their gear, going through the motions of their post-game routines. Nobody looks at me directly, but their frustration is like a crushing weight.
I collapse onto the bench in front of my locker, not bothering to start unlacing my skates. My hands tremble, and I can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline or nerves.
“Hey.”
I look up to find Carter standing in front of me, water bottle in hand. Our captain has perfected the art of leadership through crisis, and right now I’m definitely a crisis.
“That wasn’t on you alone,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Defense broke down on that play.”
“Thanks, but we both know you’re bullshitting me.” I finally start working on my skate laces to avoid his stare. “That shot was straight at me. I should have had it.”
“Should have, could have.” Carter shrugs. “The game’s over. What matters is how we bounce back. You know that.”
Easy for him to say. Carter’s never had a season where everything he touches turns to shit. He’s the kind of consistent player that management builds a team around.
The kind of player I used to be.
“Barnes!” Coach Enver’s voice cuts across the locker room. “My office. Five minutes.”
The conversations around us die a quick death. Getting called to the coach’s office after a game like this is never good news. I nod, because I don’t trust my voice, and Carter nods before walking away.
Five minutes to mentally prepare for whatever ass-chewing awaits me. I pull off my helmet and run a hand through my sweaty hair, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake.
My phone buzzes in my equipment bag. I dig around for it and pull it out. A text from my mom lights up the screen. She probably wants to make sure I’m okay after shitting the bed tonight. My family never misses a chance to check in, which would be comforting if I wasn’t trapped in the worst stretch of my career.
I ignore the message.
“You good?” Cam Foster appears next to me, pulling his jersey over his head.
“Define good.”
Cam’s only been with the Raptors for one season, but he’s got this annoying ability to read people’s moods. “Rough stretch. But you’ll bounce back.”
Will I? The confidence that carried me through juniors and into the NHL feels like it’s evaporating, one missed save at a time.
“I know you’re having a hard time.” Cam sits on the bench beside me. “You handle it better than most, though. Don’t let shit get stuck in your head. You’re better than that.”
I want to believe him, but the evidence suggests otherwise. The goals I’m letting in, the way my teammates have to work twice as hard to cover for my mistakes, the increasingly concerned looks from Coach Enver during practices.
“I should head to the office,” I say, finally pulling off my skates.
