It’s not even close to enough.
The final buzzer cuts through the arena with brutal finality.
Four–one.
We’ve lost again.
The crowd begins to thin almost immediately, people pulling on coats and filing toward the exits with that resigned quiet that losing fans have.
I stay where I am.
Down on the ice the Giants drift slowly toward their bench, shoulders heavy with the kind of frustration after a game they know they should have controlled.
They’re not a bad team.
They have everything they need.
Russo’s leadership is obvious. Chen is solid in goal. And Blake - reckless as he can be - has the kind of speed and instinct you can’t teach.
They just don’t trust the structure yet.
They don’t trust each other.
My gaze drifts once more to the bench where Coach Calloway stands talking quietly to Russo, already dissecting the loss.
Five years ago, my father built a team here that moved like a single organism, every shift connected to the next.
Watching the Giants tonight, I can see the shape of something similar trying to form beneath the mistakes.
Potential.
Especially in him.
As if he feels it, Blake glances up toward the stands again while skating off the ice.
For a moment his dark eyes sweep across the rows of seats.
And I have the feeling he’s looking for the voice that warned him.
ZANE
The locker room after a loss always feels smaller.
It’s the same room we walked into earlier this evening laughing and shoving each other toward our stalls, the same metal benches and gear bags spilling open everywhere, but now the atmosphere is heavy and too quiet.
No music or jokes. Just the dull clatter of equipment hitting the floor and the hiss of tape being ripped off shin pads.
I sit on the bench in front of my stall and pull my helmet off, running a hand through sweat-damp hair while the game keeps replaying itself in my head like a highlight reel.
The missed shots play over and over.
Across the room Russo drops onto the bench beside his locker, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees while he unties his skates. He looks calm, but I’ve played with him long enough to know that calm means he’s gutted.
Chen is still in half his goalie gear, mask sitting on the floor beside him while he rolls his shoulders like they’ve turned to stone.
No one talks about the score.
I start peeling tape off my wrists when the memory of that moment hits me again - the split second before the collision. That voice.
