Finn takes a lazy penalty. Sawyer lets in a shot he should've had easily. I miss a check I would've made in my sleep back before I was drafted to Beachside.
"Dammit," I grunt as the opposing player skates away with the puck.
When did life get so fucking hard?
Not the hockey. Hockey's the easy part.
It's everything sitting behind it. My father's endless calls, my mother's tears, Zoey holding the whole family together.
And don't even get me started on Josie's mother. I know that cruel woman's voice is still echoing behind Josie's eyes even when she smiles at me.
Yeah.
It's a lot to carry onto the ice and still expect your legs to move right.
Midway through the third, with the game slipping fully out of reach, Beck's on a rush, two-on-one. I burst forward, trying to meet him, and for half a second I think he's going to make the pass, the smart play, the one he's made a hundred times without thinking.
Instead he tries to beat the defenseman himself.
It's too much alone, but that's what Beck does when he's drowning and doesn't know how to ask anyone to throw him a rope.
He loses the puck and it squirts free, straight onto the other team's stick. Thirty seconds later it's in our net.
Three-nothing.
The whistle blows. The building roars.
I skid to a stop, cursing into the cold air of the arena, watching my little brother skate back to the bench with his head down. Darcy is there, tapping furiously on her tablet like she's taking notes of the disaster she's just seen.
I don't need to see her stats. Iknowwe've been shit tonight.
The final horn sounds four minutes later. Bears lose. Three-nothing.
We hit the locker room, but thank Christ, Coach doesn't yell. He just stands in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, and looks at every single one of us like he's trying to figure out where we all went.
"Pick your heads up," he says finally. "We fly home tonight. Lucky for you, the second we land, we've got a function to attend. So we can forget this game even happened for a few hours."
"A function?" Sawyer groans.
Coach glares across the locker room at him. "You got a hearing problem as well as a leaky five-hole, Stone?"
The entire room goes dangerously quiet for exactly one second before it detonates.
Beck's the first to break, laughing so hard he nearly falls off the bench, clutching his chest like he's been shot. "Leaky five-hole.Leaky five-hole,Coach, come on—"
"Christ," Mason mutters beside me, dragging a hand down his face, fighting his own grin and losing.
Finn's practically wheezing into his stall. "I've heard that phrase before, lad, but never directed at a man'sgoaltending."
Sawyer, to his credit, doesn't even blink.
"Coach, with respect," he says, voice flat as still water, "my five-hole's been tight all season. Ask anyone."
"For fucks sake. No wonder you can't win a fucking game of hockey. You're a bunch of children!" Coach's eyes flick, just briefly, toward me. "Now Colin has put this thing together. Some charity gala at Salt & Neon. A jersey auction for the youth program. Full turnout expected. Owners, sponsors, press."
Why the hell is he looking at me?
"So basically," Beck mutters from his stall, not looking up, "we get to go smile pretty for photos the same night we got our asses kicked twice."
