Chapter Sixteen: Callum
We’re tied 2-2 with thirty seconds left on the clock.
Portland State’s buzzing. Ryder Hawthorne’s flying down the ice with Cole Whitlock on his left, and I can see what they’re planning. Cross-ice pass. One-timer. Game winner.
I try to cut the angle. Force Hawthorne wide. But he’s faster than I thought.
He threads it to Whitlock anyway.
One-timer.
Top shelf.
Asher doesn’t even move.
The buzzer sounds three seconds later. We lose 3-2.
The Portland bench erupts. Their fans go insane. Our bench is silent.
I skate back to the bench with my head down.
Fuck.
In the locker room, nobody’s talking. The music is off, so the guys are stripping out of their gear in silence. Asher’s sitting in the corner staring at his gloves.
I strip off my jersey, still riding the high.
“Brixton.”
I turn. Rowan is standing with his arms crossed. His captain’s face on.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell was that?”
I blink. “What?”
“The lazy fucking coverage on Whitlock. You let him walk right into the slot.”
“I tried to cut off Hawthorne—”
“And left Whitlock wide open for the game winner.” His voice is sharp. “That’s unacceptable.”
My jaw tightens. “It was a two-on-one.”
“It was your man. Your responsibility.”
“Dude, I made a split-second decision.”
“The wrong one.” Rowan steps closer. “And it cost us the game.”
The room’s dead silent. Everyone’s watching now.
I laugh. “Chill out, Captain. It’s one goal.”
“One goal that lost us the game.”
“It happens.”
