“Put your gear on. Now,” I snap at the players, trying to dig deep and remember whatever that self-important colonel preached in that leadership seminar they all forced us to take one rainy day on base. “I don’t fucking care if Ellie’s about to…leave.” I almost choke on the word. Almost. “We’re in the NHL. We’re here to play hockey, and we’re here to win.”
I look around, meeting every eye. “If we don’t want her to leave, then we give her a reason to stay.”
I don’t know if I’m getting through. I’m not a captain. I’m not an inspiration. I’m not Zayne. Especially not sober Zayne.
My hero looks shaky as he puts on his skates. He thinks I don’t see when he takes a swig from a bottle that’s not water.
The walk-off song makes me want to vomit, the vibrations rattling my ears when we step on the ice, circling to the roar of the crowd.
She’s leaving.
Leaving.
The words loop in my head like a curse.
Ellie is leaving.
The crowd’s too loud. Everything feels like it’s cranked up a dial too far.
The captain reeks of alcohol as he takes his position for the face-off.
He loses the face-off.
The Montreal Vortex take the puck, and I already know—we’re done. My head’s not in the game. My legs feel slow.
All I can think is: this is it. The last time I’ll play in the NHL. I can’t enjoy it, can’t go out in a blaze of glory—instead, it’s the agonizing death of my dream.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Yankee?” Ren hollers at me, slamming his stick on the net. “You forget how to play?”
“Ellie’s leaving.”
“She what?” He chokes on his water—it leaks out through his missing teeth onto his jersey.
“They’re hiring a new coach,” I say desperately. The lights are too bright here on the ice. I squint at the players.
“Fuck.” He lets in a goal then rallies, but it’s too late.
The team—my team—implodes on the ice. We can’t keep possession of the puck. Ren is a hair too slow. The fans are disappointed. Our last two wins were a fluke. The scoreboard lights mock us, goal after goal, and by the time the final buzzer sounds, the stands are half empty—fans filtering out before the traffic hits.
The buzzer sounds, and mercifully, the game is over.
Back in the locker room, we’re wrecked. Silent. Beaten.
“Well, I know that’s not how we wanted this game to go,” Ellie tells us when we’re nursing our wounds in the locker room.
I can’t even look at her.
Is it her decision to leave? Really? Or is it my fault?
It’s good I’m leaving. I don’t deserve to be here.
Dana probably caught wind of what Hudson and the Svenssons are digging up. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Cut her losses. Fire Ellie, sweep the damage under the rug.
“This was it.” I feel delirious. “My big shot, and it’s over.”
I look to Zayne for something—comfort, wisdom—but he’s slumped on the floor, drunk as shit. So I stare down at the bright-yellow Lunchables package in my hand. “Jovi,” I call, raising it to toss to him.
Before he can catch it—
