We’re twelve minutes in when we go down one player—for too many men on the ice, of all the fucking things. A rookie mistake from one of the fourth liners. I don’t even know who it was, but it doesn’t matter right now. We’re on the penalty kill, with two minutes of white-knuckled hell.
I almost get through it. Almost.
It’s a rebound off the end boards, a fast bounce at a weird angle. I adjust and stretch out, but their center is faster. He buries it top shelf, glove side.
And just like that, it’s over.
Doesn’t matter how many saves I made before that, or that I held the crease through three periods and a half. When the goal horn sounds, none of that counts.
The arena erupts around me, fans screaming as the Dragons spill off the bench, mobbing their goalie at the other end.
I stay kneeling with my glove on the ice, breath tight in my chest. This is the kind of loss that hits deep, that lingers. The season ender.
Then I hear it—Logan’s stick against the crossbar. Three quick taps, a sound only meant for me. He does it after every game, no matter whether we win or lose.
I rise, and I’m instantly surrounded.
First come the helmet taps, one by one. The whole team does it, with quiet, heavy hands against the crown of my helmet, the curve of my back. It’s a rhythm of respect and solidarity.
My crew hangs back to be last. Eli, Chase, Logan, Jake, Viktor. It’s tradition. Brotherhood.
Chase tucks his chin in, forehead pressed to mine through the cage. “You were a fuckingwall,” he mutters. “This wasn’t on you.”
Viktor’s next, his glove gripping my shoulder. “I will punch the rookie for you, yes?”
I huff a breath that’s almost a laugh, and Eli claps me on the back as if I just pulled off a win.
Because to them, I did. Because that’s what this team does. Even when the scoreboard says we lost, we remind each other that we showed the fuck up. That I held the line.
Jake squeezes the back of my neck as we make our way through the tunnel after handshakes. Chase knocks his shoulder into mine and tells me he needs to punch something. Logan mutters that he can finally take Zoe’s name off his waistband, and Eli has to physically hold Chase back as we enter the locker room with exhausted laughter.
No one speaks for a while as helmets and gear clatter to the floor. Tape gets ripped from sticks. Eli swears under his breath,and Viktor just sits in his stall, staring at nothing, his jersey peeled halfway off like he gave up partway through.
I shower and change quickly. Run my hand over each of the initials on my gear, like I always do after a game, and my eyes are drawn to my catcher’s mitt. The initials-free glove that didn’t catch the puck tonight.
The rookies and younger guys take off after Coach Benson’s debrief—likely to find bad beer, worse decisions, and whatever regret comes with being twenty-two and pissed off.
I tug my cap lower as I walk into the hotel bar an hour later with the boys. None of us wanted to go out. We’re older now. Some of us are married, some have kids or long-term partners. I don’t want noise. Just a chair, a cold beer, and enough distance from the crease to let my jaw unclench.
We take a corner booth with soft lighting and low music. Chase orders a round before we even sit.
No one brings up the loss; we don’t have to. It sits between us, heavy but not bitter.
Viktor appears a few minutes later, his usual biker jacket slung over one shoulder. He drops into the seat next to Jake and doesn’t say anything for a beat.
“You lose the kids?” Logan asks, lifting his glass.
“They were too sweaty,” Viktor says simply. “And one of them smelled like Axe body spray.”
Jake snorts into his drink, and Chase grins. “Not like you to not go clubbing with half the team and get mauled by beautiful sorority girls, Karlsson.”
Viktor shrugs. “I have outgrown being mauled. I prefer to have a mutual interest now.”
“Oh yeah?” Eli cocks one eyebrow. “Define mutual.”
“Someone who likes my motorcycle and doesn’t ask how much money I make,” Viktor replies. “And it is a bonus if she doesn’t say the letters L-O-L out loud instead of just laughing.”
Logan chokes on his beer. “Who the hell have you been hanging out with?”
