"A friend," he repeated, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "I can do that. I’m pretty good at playing defense."
He tapped the bar twice, a silent salute, and turned toward the door. As he walked out into the night, I felt a strange, hollow ache in my chest. I’d done the right thing. The responsible thing.
So why did it feel like I’d just lost the biggest game of my life?
9
Michael
Frost Bank didn’t feel like home tonight. There was a looming sense of foreboding. Every breath felt like inhaling static electricity, and the roar of the crowd didn't just hit my ears. It vibrated in my teeth.
I stood at the blue line during the anthem, my helmet tucked under my arm, staring at the logo at center ice. My head should’ve been a fortress of X’s and O’s. Instead, it was a leaking faucet. I kept seeing the way Kayla’s fingers had brushed my hand the night before. I kept hearing that word:Friend.It was a mercy killing disguised as an olive branch, and it was currently rattling around my skull like a loose puck.
"Landry, wake up," Landon muttered, bumping my shoulder as the lights came up. "Game face on. This isn't a scrimmage."
I blinked, forcing the memory of Kayla’s weary smile out of my mind.
"I'm on it."
But I wasn't.
The Minnesota Wild were a heavy, suffocating team. They played a trap game that required absolute precision to break. From the first drop of the puck, I felt a step behind. My timingwas off by a fraction of a second, the kind of margin that didn’t matter in October but was a death sentence in April.
Midway through the first period, we were tied 0-0. Mason won a draw in the offensive zone, pulling it back to Tucker at the point. I moved to my spot in the high slot, calling for the deflection. Tucker looked at me, hesitated—that lingering distrust still coloring his vision—and then fired a slap-pass. It was a beauty, aimed right for my blade.
I reached for it, but my brain lagged. Instead of a clean redirect into the top corner, the puck skipped over my stick and cleared the zone. The Wild transitioned instantly.
"Move your feet, dammit!" Hunter yelled from the crease as the play turned back toward him.
Hunter was the only reason we weren't down by three. He was playing like a man possessed, his glove hand snapping out to rob the Wild’s top scorers again and again. He was doing his job. I was busy wondering if I’d overstepped by buying those damn cookies.
The second period was a grind. The score was 1-1 after Grayson buried a rebound off a shot from Aiden. The arena shook, our fans sensing the momentum shift. We were on a power play, and my unit was out to seal the deal.
Cash was quarterbacking from the top. He zipped a pass to Shawn on the wing, who looked for me in the bumper spot. I saw the lane open, saw the Wild defender cheating toward the post. All I had to do was take the pass and fire.
Shawn sent the puck and I leaned into the shot, but my edge caught a rut in the ice. Or maybe I just wasn't balanced because I was thinking about the look on Gabe’s face. I fumbled it hard, and the puck died between my skates. A Wild penalty killerpounced on it, chipping it past me and racing down the ice for a shorthanded breakaway.
Hunter stood tall, stopping the initial shot with a pad save that sounded like a gunshot, but the fatigue was starting to show in his posture.
"Clean it up, Twenty-two!" Coach screamed from the bench.
His words followed me into the third period, which arrived like a funeral shroud. The score stayed 1-1, the tension reaching a breaking point. With four minutes left on the clock, we were hemmed in our own zone. I was gassed, my lungs burning, the self-doubt finally curdling into a heavy lead weight in my gut.
If there was a way out of this, it was gonna have to come from someone else.
I was covering the point. The Wild defenseman, a big guy named Suter, faked a shot. I bit like a schmuck, and lunged to block it, leaving my feet. A rookie mistake. He pulled the puck back, walked around my sliding body, and fired a low shot toward the net.
Hunter made the save, but the rebound popped out into the low slot.
It was mine. I was the closest man. I just had to sweep it into the corner to let the boys reset. But as I scrambled to my feet, I saw Tucker coming in hot from the other side. For a split second, I hesitated. Wondered if he was going to hit me. If he’d let me have it.
That micro-second of internal politics was the end of it.
A Wild forward dived past my outstretched stick, poked the puck under Hunter’s sliding blocker, and tucked it into the net.
2-1, Minnesota.
The silence in the arena was deafening. It was the kind of quiet that made my ears ring. I stayed on one knee, my head hanging, watching the Wild players celebrate in a huddle near our net.
