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Veskar skated past. “You need to put everything else aside and keep your mind on the game.”

I knew that, but knowing didn’t help when my brain was screaming and my body was moving through someone else’s routine.

The puck dropped.

Two minutes in, their forward broke through, his wrist shot coming at my glove side. I’d stopped this exact shot a thousand times. Automatic. Except my glove was half a second behind my brain, and the puck was already past me before I registered the motion.

The red light. The goal horn. The crowd’s groan rolling through the arena in a wave of disappointment.

I didn’t look up at the family section. I didn’t need to. I could feel her watching. Could imagine her face, the little furrow between her eyebrows that appeared when she was worried.

She’d watched me prove I was exactly what I’d told her I was: not good enough.

I tried to reset, planting my feet, adjusting my stance. Smacking my stick against the sides of the net.

The assistant coach’s words echoed in my mind, trust your instincts.

A second shot came a few minutes later. I overcommitted, lunging too far left, barely getting a piece of it.

I tossed it out, and Tolrek swept the puck away.

We kept playing, and I started loosening up. I could do this. Easy.

Then the other team got a breakaway, and their star forward roared across the ice, sweeping past our defense.

Shot. Goal.

The referee’s whistle cut through the noise. 2-0 Crimson Crushers.

Every shot after that became a referendum on my worth, not as a goalie, but as a person. As someone worthy of the woman in the stands wearing my number.

I made it through the first period without letting anything else in, but during the break, the coach pulled me off the ice. I skated back out with the team and took the bench, keeping my head down. Drachmar skated over to the net to replace me.

The crowd’s noise felt distant. Muffled. Like I was underwater.

I couldn’t look at the family section.

The game continued without me. Drachmar stopped shots like I should’ve. The team rallied, scored twice, tying it up. The crowd came alive again.

And I sat at the end of the bench and disappeared.

We lost 4-2.

The locker room was quiet after.

Coach stood at the front, his expression carefully neutral. “We regroup. Game five is in two days. It’s an away game, so we won’t have home advantage, but we can do this. We’ve been here before.”

I couldn’t hear any of it through the noise in my head.

You failed. Again. In front of everyone.

In front of her.

I showered and dressed in street clothes, moved through the motions like someone had set me up to function without actually being present.

My phone had texts from Ellie. I didn’t open them.

I would leave through the side exit. Avoid everyone. Go home and figure out how to pretend I was still worth the roster spot.