Again.
It’s a clean feed from Murph, flawless lane, goalie cheating left—and I still send it wide, the shot clanging uselessly off the boards instead of burying itself in the net. The Redhawks break the other way, crowd roaring. My muscles fire as I pivot and chase.
Too fast. Too rushed.
All power, no touch.
I get another look a shift later. Then another. Five chances where muscle takes over and precision abandons me completely. Every miss tightens something ugly in my chest. I can feel it happening in real time. The harder I push, the sloppier it gets. My body is strong. My timing is trash.
When the final horn sounds, my legs are still buzzing, lungs burning, sweat dripping into my eyes—but all I can think about is the empty space where goals should’ve been.
I coast toward the bench knowing exactly what’s coming.
Coach Metcalfe looms over me, arms crossed and mouth twisted into a bitter scowl. “You’re a mess, Dubois. Your strength is there, but your precision…”
“Is shit.” I rub my hands across my face so that I don’t have to look at him. I want to hit something, to let off the frustration that’s been building up in me all game.
“...leaves something to be desired,” he amends.
“I lost us the game.”
If I was hoping for sympathy, I’m barking up the wrong tree. “Hell, yeah, you did. Whatwasthat? You missed five shots.Five.And the goalie could have been asleep for all I know, that’s how far off the net you were.”
It hurts to hear, but it’s true. “Yeah, I know.” I turn away from him and tap my knuckles on my thigh. I’m so pissed at myself. I can do better.
Up in the stands, Knight’s assistant, Marley, is dictating something into her phone. Minerva is sitting beside her. When she catches my eye, she waves. Her expression is soft and curious. Thoughtful. I lift my hand in a tiny answer wave, and she smiles.
“Get out of here,” Coach grumbles. “We’ll work on this in drills. I’m not gonna ride your ass over a mistake here and there, butfive…”
“Got it.” I lurch to my feet and follow the rest of the team off the ice. I don’t need Coach to lecture me about how shitty my game was. I am fully fucking aware.
Viktor corners me the second I enter the locker room. “What do you call that, Tristan?”
“The worst game of my career,” I shoot back. I need this guy to get out of my face, at least until I’ve showered and cooled off.
“The worst game of your careerso far,” he corrects. “You can always get worse. Not much worse, admittedly, but whatever. That’s not what I’m talking about. You and your assistant had a little moment, huh?”
“We waved,” I tell him.
“You wavedwith chemistry.”
“Dude, I don’t even know what that means.” I elbow my way around him.
“You’re into her, aren’t you?” he asks from behind me.
“No!”
Camden, who’s been listening to this interrogation, coughs into his fist.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell them. “Let it go.”
Knight shakes his head in disapproval. Great, now the whole team thinks I’m creeping on Minerva.
Bowen saves the day. “So, we’re all going to The Puck Drop after this, right?”
I grab my towel out of my locker. “About that.”
Viktor gets back into my personal space. “ You’re going. You always go. Bros before…”
