"Then let's actually do it." I look at each of them. "Five minutes. We can turn this around."
We can't.
The final buzzer sounds with us down three.
The locker room is silent.
We lost to a team we should have demolished. A team that's currently sitting at the bottom of our division.
Coach doesn't even come in right away. He's probably too pissed to talk to us.
When he finally appears, his face is stone.
"That was the worst game I've seen from this team in three years. Every single one of you should be ashamed of that performance."
No one argues.
"I don't know what's going on. I don't know if it's personal drama, distractions, or if you all just decided to forget how to play hockey." He looks at each of us. "But you'd better figure it out before the next game. Because if you play like that again, you're done. Understand?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoes through the room.
"Get out of my sight."
We shower in silence. Get dressed in silence. Walk out of the locker room without the usual conversation about where we’re going to celebrate or grab a drink.
I can feel my dad's calls vibrating in my bag. I ignore them.
When we finally get back to the house, someone produces a case of beer, and we all grab one without discussion.
We're sprawled across the living room—Ashton on the couch, Pierce in the armchair, Crew and Holden on the floor, and me leaning against the wall.
"That was pathetic," Ashton finally says.
"Completely pathetic," Pierce agrees.
"I missed three open shots," I say. "Three."
"I let their center walk right past me," Ashton adds. "Like I wasn't even there."
"I turned over the puck four times," Crew says. "Four."
We sit there cataloging our failures, drinking our beers, and feeling like shit.
"It wasn't the finger," Ashton says, looking at me.
"I know."
"You played fine. We all just sucked."
"Yeah."
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out to silence it and see fifteen missed calls from my dad.
"Your dad?" Ashton asks.
"Yep."
"You should probably call him back."
