But it was too late. Seattle’s forwards moved with the practiced synchronization that came from playing together for years, not days. A quick cross-ice pass, then another, and suddenly their sniper had a clean look at our net.
The red light flashed. The visiting fans erupted in celebration.
1–2 Seattle.
I bent over, hands on my knees, sucking in oxygen and trying to process what had just happened. We’d had momentum, had been building pressure, and one bad turnover had flipped the entire game.
I skated toward the boards, my shift mercifully over. The second line jumped onto the ice, fresh legs that should have been able to contain Seattle’s momentum.
Should have.
From the bench, I watched the play unfold with a growing sense of dread. Williams was two steps behind the play. Petrov went to the wrong coverage zone, leaving a massive gap in our defense. Martin attempted a pass that sailed wide, giving Seattle another odd-man rush.
“Watch each other!” I shouted, even knowing they couldn’t hear me over the roar of the crowd.
Their communication was nonexistent. Five players moving as individuals instead of a unit, each making decisions in isolation rather than reading off their teammates.Seattle’s forwards exploited every gap, every hesitation, every moment of confusion.
Another shot. Another goal. Another celebration. A knife twisted in my gut.
1–3 Seattle.
The final horn sounded thirty seconds later, mercifully ending what had started with so much promise and ended in bitter disappointment.
The locker room was silent except for the sounds of stripping and the occasional muttered curse. Players yanked off gear, their faces carefully blank or openly frustrated. No one made eye contact. No one spoke.
I sat at my stall, still in full gear, and searched the defeated postures and slumped shoulders. This was my team. My responsibility. And we’d just looked completely unprepared for what should have been a manageable opponent.
Turner tore off his jersey with unnecessary force, his scowl directed at nothing and everyone. Laasko stared at the floor. Williams looked ready to punch something. The younger players seemed shell-shocked, like they’d just discovered hockey was harder than they’d expected.
I couldn’t let this become the narrative. Not on our first game. Not when we still had the entire preseason to figure things out.
I stood up and tapped the helmet under my arm, cutting through the oppressive silence.
“Listen up,” I called, projecting confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “That game was a wake-up call. We got exposed tonight—our chemistry issues, our communication breakdowns, our defensive coverage. Seattle showed us exactly where we need to improve.”
A few players looked up. Others kept their eyes downcast.
“But here’s what I know about this team,” I continued, forcing conviction into my voice. “We have talent. We have skill. What we don’t have yet is trust. We’re still learning each other’s tendencies, still figuring out how to move as one unit instead of twenty-three individuals.”
“Easy for you to say,” Turner muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “Some of us were out there getting embarrassed.”
I met his eyes directly. “All of us got embarrassed tonight. Including me. I turned over the puck that led to their second goal. But we either learn from this and get better, or we let it define us. Your choice of which team you want to be part of.”
The room remained divided—some players nodding in agreement, others looking skeptical. But at least they were listening.
“Get some rest,” I said. “Tomorrow, we review tape and fix our mistakes. This isn’t who we are. It’s just where we’re starting.”
The locker room door opened, and Wesley stepped inside, his expression professionally neutral despite what must have been a nightmare of a game from a PR perspective. He caught my eye and gestured toward the hallway.
“Griffin, press conference in five.”
Right. Because losing wasn’t punishment enough—now I had to explain our failures to a room full of reporters who’d probably already written their “expansion team struggles” stories.
I stripped off my gear faster than I ever had, threw on a Stormhawks hoodie and jeans, and followed Wesley toward the press room. The hallway was mercifully empty, giving us a moment of privacy before I had to face the media circus.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
Wesley’s thoughtful expression and furrowed browseemed to indicate he was already spinning the narrative. “Manageable. You’re going to emphasize the learning opportunity, the strong first period, the defensive adjustments you’re planning. Highlight Laasko’s goal and the positives from individual performances.”
