I'm left chasing the puck around the ice, desperately trying to knock it back on their side and keep it from gettingnear the goal. Time and time again, the puck gets through. It's a massacre.
Four to two by the end of the second period.
I throw my weight into every hit. Block shots until my ribs scream and my shoulder feels like it's tearing apart from the inside. Grind through shifts until my lungs burn and my legs turn to lead. And nothing fucking works. We still lose.
Six to two. Humiliating.
Reporters circle like vultures in the tunnel afterward. One sneers, "Are you washed up yet, Huxley?" Another shoves a microphone in my face. "Should the Havoc be looking for younger talent to replace you?"
I mutter something about team effort and learning from losses. Juliet's voice echoes in my head, telling me not to bite, not to give them ammunition.
If I said what I really think to the journalists who've never laced up skates but love to tell players how to do their jobs, looking for new work tomorrow would follow immediately.
The worst moment, though, comes later.
Coach Cross:Did you make that appointment?
No, of course not. Dr. Sable's card got dumped in the bowl by my front door that holds my keys. I crack my neck and sigh.
Me:Not yet. I plan to.
Coach Cross:Get it done, Silas.
Right. Doing a piss-poor job of delaying my own execution seems to be my specialty.
When we reach the hotel, every member of the Havoc looks like they've taken a beating. We bumble into a line at the buffet set up for the players, eating like condemned men. Steam trays line one wall. Overcooked chicken. Bland pasta. Rice that tastes like cardboard. But we pile our plates highanyway because a loss like that needs fuel for anger as much as for strength.
Beck stacks protein high on his plate. Double chicken breasts and three hard-boiled eggs. "We'll review tape tomorrow. Reset and move forward," he says to the whole team. His voice stays even but tight with tension.
Hunter stabs at his food like it personally insulted him. "Refs were blind out there. They could've been offsetting penalties on half those calls." His scowl could turn men to stone.
"Or maybe," Thorne cuts in with a pensive expression. "The truth is that we just sucked tonight. Except Silas. He was a fucking wall out there."
The compliment scrapes like sandpaper. It doesn't fix the loss or change the fact that we got embarrassed on national television. I just chew my bland chicken and swallow.
Jett drops into the seat beside me, cracking open a bottle of water. "You look like shit, man."
"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no real bite in it. "I did my best with what I had to work with."
Hunter leans against the wall across from us, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. "How's your roommate situation working out?"
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. "Fine..."
"Fine," Hunter echoes with a snort. "That's what you say when your kitchen's on fire but you don't want to admit it."
"Pretty sure his kitchen is on fire," Thorne drawls from down the table. "Scout moves in and suddenly Mr. Iceberg looks human. I can't say I blame you, man. She's hot as hell. Don't know how you're not all over her."
"Shut it," I snap, sharper than intended. My fork scrapes loud against the plate.
Jett finally huffs a laugh. "Jesus. Touchy subject."
"Maybe he's just tense," Hunter mutters, lip curling into something that might be amusement. "If she were my roommate, I'd get her to give me a massage."
I slam my water glass down hard enough that liquid sloshes over my hand and onto the table. "She's not yours."
Mr. Iceberg. Ice Man. The nicknames stings more than they should. They think I'm cold, unaffected, a machine. No idea exists about what's burning underneath. Right now, the ice is cracking. One mention of her and I'm ready to throw punches at my own teammates.
Beck lifts one eyebrow but doesn't comment. Thorne just smirks wider, like he's got me completely figured out.
