"Great work, Landry," Tucker hissed, skating past me and intentionally spraying ice over my jersey. "Way to lead."
What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?
We pulled Hunter for the extra attacker in the final minute, and threw everything at them. Mason hit the post. Aiden had a wide-open net and missed by an inch. I had the puck on my stick with ten seconds left, deep in the corner. I looked for the pass, looked for the hero play to atone for my series of mistakes, but the Wild defense closed in like a vice.
I tried to muscle through with sapped strength. And lost the puck.
The final horn blared, a long, mournful electronic scream that signaled the end of Game 1. We had lost on home ice. Lost the momentum. And as the Wild celebrated, I looked toward our goal.
Hunter still stood in his crease, leaning on his stick with his head down. He’d stopped thirty-eight shots, and it hadn't been enough because I couldn't keep my head in the game.
I skated toward the tunnel, the loss burning the back of my throat. I’d told Kayla I could play defense. I’d told myself I was a professional. But as I caught my reflection in the glass of the boards, I didn't see a veteran leader. I saw a man who was losing his grip on everything. The game, the girl, and the respect of the room.
I was in the friend zone at the bar, and I was in the doghouse on the ice. And right now, I didn't know which one hurt more.
Sitting in the locker room, the quiet is what got to me. Usually, there was a low hum of post-game recovery. Ripping tape, thehiss of the shower, muttered debriefs between the guys. Tonight, there was only the rhythmictika-tika-tikaof thumbs hitting glass screens.
I sat on my bench, staring at the scarred laces of my skates. I didn't need to look at my phone to know what was happening. The blue light reflected off the faces of the guys around me told the story.
"Unbelievable," Mason muttered, his jaw tight as he stared at his screen. "ESPN’s already got the clip up. The Veteran Blunder. They’re calling it the turning point of the series."
"They're saying we’re too old in the middle," Aiden added, his voice flat. He didn't look at me, but the subtext was a spotlight. "That the trade was a desperation move that backfired in Game 1."
I kept my back to them, methodically sliding my pads into my gym bag. I felt the heat of their collective gaze, a prickle of resentment that usually resulted in a confrontation. But tonight, they weren't even giving me the dignity of a fight.
Grayson stood up, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. He looked at the room, his eyes lingering on Landon and Tucker. "I’m going to the Faucet," he said, his voice echoing in the tiled space. "I need to drown this game in something a lot stronger than Gatorade. Who’s in?"
"I'm in," Tucker said, standing immediately.
"Me too," Cash added.
I stayed hunched over my bag, my hands moving with deliberate slowness. I waited for the beat. The "You coming, Landry?" or even a sarcastic "Don't trip on your way out, Seattle."
It never came.
I listened to the symphony of their departure. The heavy thud of the exit door, the fading chime of their laughter, the sudden, ringing vacuum of a room that was suddenly far too large for one person. I wasn't mad. If anything, the isolation felt like a relief. I didn't have the energy to pretend I was okay, and I certainly didn't have the words to explain why a thirty-six-year-old pro had played like a nervous rookie.
Once they were gone, I grabbed my bag but didn’t head out. The press would be camped by the player’s lot like vultures over a fresh kill, microphones poised to pick apart my mental lapse. Instead, I stripped down to my gym shorts and a gray compression vest and headed for the team’s private training center.
The gym was a cathedral of brushed steel and rubber, illuminated by dim, motion-sensor lights. Outside the high windows, I could still hear the muffled roar of the San Antonio crowd filtering out of the arena. The restless, disappointed honking of horns and the low rumble of a city that had expected a blowout and got a heartbreak instead.
I went for the kettlebells first.
Swing. Snap. Breathe.The rhythm was supposed to be meditative, but every time the weight reached its apex, I saw the puck sliding under Hunter’s blocker.
Swing. Snap. Breathe.I saw Kayla’s face when she told me she didn't have room for a complication.
I was mid-set, the sweat slicking my skin and stinging my eyes, when the door to the training room wheezed open. If I stopped, the gravity of the night would catch up to me. So I didn’t.
"You’re supposed to have light recovery after a game, Michael. You don’t punish yourself until your heart explodes."
I finished the set, lowered the weight to the rubber mat with a controlled thud, and leaned over with my hands on my knees. My breath came in short, burning stabs.
Casey, the Surge’s lead physio, leaned against the squat rack. She had her hair pulled back in a practical bun and carried a clipboard that seemed permanently fused to her arm. Younger than the trainers I was used to back home, but warmer. Which made her more effective, in a way.
"Press still out there?" I rasped, wiping my face with the hem of my vest.
"Thick as flies," she said, walking toward me. She hopped up onto a training table, swinging her legs. "They’re currently debating whether you’ve lost your clutch gene or if you’re just distracted by the heat. It’s very dramatic. Very Shakespearean."
