My chest constricts as Donnelly slaps a shot on our goal. He’s good, but our goalie is better, stopping the puck in its tracks with his leg pads. Our defense picks up the rebound and passes it to the left winger for a counterattack.
We have to win this.
We lost.
“Damn it,” I mutter on my way out of the showers.
My jaw locks, then I let out a heavy exhale to release the tension in my sore muscles, making my way to my spot in the locker room after the game. Despite the shower, the imaginary stench of our failure lingers on my damp skin. Coach already gave us a lecture before he sent us off for the night.
We might have gotten our offensive and defensive line chemistry working enough to score a goal in the final period, but all it did was tie us up. Elmwood—Donnelly—lit up the lamp in overtime first, clinching the win.
If that girl in the stands hadn’t distracted me, the play would’ve gone differently. The strange moment our eyes met continues repeating in my mind.
I shake her from my thoughts and grab the jeans in my cubby. Coach likes us to arrive to games cleaned up, but we’re free to leave in casual clothes.
Some of the guys are talking while they check out their new bruises and wind down. The vibe in the room is somber, but not as heavy as my own disappointed mood. It’s not like me to keep my head down after a loss.
Not a great look for the team’s new captain. I’ve only had the title for a few months.
My last play against Donnelly replays over and over as I search for what I should’ve done differently. My dad always taught me the importance of moving on after a bad game outcome. He’s one of the reasons I’m chasing this dream so hard, so for his memory I have to put this behind me.
This is my year. I want that draft pick rather than graduating without any NHL recognition and choosing to go the free agent route to make it to the pros.
These days being drafted doesn’t mean you get called up right away without finishing college like it was in my dad’s era. Some do—Alex Keller, one of our upperclassmen teammates, signed with the NY Islanders last summer and he killed it during his rookie season. It’s becoming more common for drafted players to finish out their development in the NCAA and graduate before they’re called up to play professionally. Sports blogs speculate it makes for a more well-rounded player.
Still doesn’t make me hunger for that pick any less.
And if I get an offer, I’ll leave school early in a heartbeat. I like my classes fine enough, but finishing my degree isn’t important to me if I have the opportunity to achieve what I want.
It’s got me impatient to get out there on NHL ice where I know I belong. I came to play for Heston University with that in mind when UMass passed me over.
Heston Lake, Connecticut is a small college town not far from Hartford. This close to any of the major teams in the northeastern division, players usually vie for spots on the UMass, Elmwood U, Boston College, and UConn hockey teams. But this is the right team for me, and I show UMass what a mistake they made every time we’ve wiped the ice with them in the last two years.
I heave another sigh, then rake my fingers through my disheveled hair, sending water droplets at my locker neighbor, Cameron Reeves. He whips me with his towel, clearly in better spirits than me.
“Do I need to tell you to turn that frown upside-down like my mom always does?” he jokes.
My lips twitch, but I can’t revive the determined smile I gave him before we hit the ice. “Shut up, man.”
“Not doing it for you? Well then, my other sage advice is to hit up The Landmark for a drink and get laid.”
Noah Porter and a couple of our other D-men chime in with their agreements. This time my smirk comes a little easier because I’m with them on that cure, too. It’ll take nothing to find a girl to help me forget the sting of losing against our rivals tonight.
Once I finish getting dressed, Cameron nudges me with his elbow before tugging on his worn Heston U baseball cap backwards over his mess of thick dark brown hair. Win or loss, it’s his ritual after a game to reset himself for his next time defending the crease.
Hockey players are some of the most superstitious people on the planet. We’ve all got our little quirks to keep our focus dialed in on the W.
“Hey, captain?” Elijah Adler, one of our freshman players, hovers behind us.
“Careful, rookie,” Cameron warns. “He’s in a mood.”
I shoot my best friend a flat look. His gray eyes glint with amusement and his easygoing grin widens as he finishes tossing his goalie gear into his bag.
“Relax.” He drops to the bench and slings an arm over my shoulder. “We’ll get Elmwood back when we play them again.”
My jaw works. “I wish it was tomorrow night instead of us playing another home game.”
“Me too,” he says. “Damn scheduling. But when we do have our second game, we’ll get our revenge.”
