“Flu,” I said.
“Poor kid.”
The line shuffled forward a little, Ten, coming up six years our captain, tense and waiting to lead the team out on the ice.
“Two minutes,” someone called from the side, counting down with us to hitting the ice.
MaybeIhave the flu as well?Maybe that was why I felt so tight with stress and couldn’t find the sweet spot where the real world slipped away and I was just Erik, skater, hockey player, goal scorer, winner. I’d never been a superstitious man, not really. Sure, I had my game day rituals like every other hockey player. The exact order of putting on my gear, the way I taped my stick, the last-minute visualization before stepping onto the ice. But today, those rituals seem shallow, dwarfed by the weight of emotions threatening to overtake me.
Next to me Adler went quiet, and that wasn’t right either—he was energy and spark and teasing but he was silent. I tapped his shin in return, and we exchanged smiles.
Forced smiles.
On the bench, every word of the national anthem was a reminder tonight was not just about hockey; it was about family, love, hope, and belief. I couldn’t control the outcome of the game, but I could control the effort I put in, and I vowed to give it everything I had. For the Railers. For Stan, Eva, Margo. And for Noah.
For me.
I just wish Noah was here.
Ten was up against the Toronto captain in the face-off. He won the puck and hope flooded me. Coming back to win four games in a row had been done before, and maybe that would be us. The chilled air of the rink nipped at my face, but the sting was nothing compared to the pressure of hope I felt in my chest. We could do this. The clock seemed to change both agonizingly slow and terrifyingly fast as we fought tooth and nail, every move calculated, each pass and shot full of desperate optimism. Only the resounding clang of the puck hitting the pipes became an all-too-familiar soundtrack of the evening. Once, twice, three times… more… every time it sounded, it felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel tease of what could have been. The tension in the arena was intense. Fans on the edge of their seats, screams of support every time we got a look on goal, and we were in the third and final period, the score at two fat goose eggs, tied with nothing, and the hope bloomed.
Bryan was tall and impenetrable in our goal, and he was having the game of his life. Every save he made sent waves of relief through me. He was a wall, a fortress, our last hope against Toronto, the same as Stan would have been. But with just five minutes left, the unthinkable happened. A quick pass, a shot that tumbled over and over, deflecting off a skate, and the red light behind our net was glaring. The deafening cheer from the Toronto fans was a cruel jolt back to reality. I glanced over at Bryan, his posture deflated, his eyes reflecting the heartbreak we all felt.
One–nothing to Toronto.
Five minutes to go.
Those last five minutes felt like an eternity. We threw everything we had at them, every last ounce of energy, skill, and determination. But the universe, it seemed, had other plans. The final buzzer sounded, sealing our fate, and we were out of the Stanley Cup. The weight of the loss bore down on us all, but every one of us skated over to Bryan, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Words failed me; in times like these, they often did.
Adler and Ten skated back to the center of the ice, starting the line to congratulate Toronto. Chins tipped, they were stoic, and as we moved along the line offering our praise to the opposing team for a job well done, the exhaustion and disappointment were obvious. Then, the silence in our locker room was suffocating, each of us processing the loss in our own way. The journey to the Stanley Cup had been intense, emotional, and tonight, utterly heart-wrenching. We had come so close, only to have our dreams crushed at the very end, and every one of us felt it.
“We fought hard,” Ten said, when no one else wanted to say a thing. “We tried everything.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and then more silence.
Adler cursed. “It’s fucking shit, that’s what it is.”
This time it was as if everyone sighed at the same time, then someone else cursed, then another. As I unlaced my skates, I added my own curse, and then I knew…
I just wanted to go home.
Exiting the stadium was a blur of condolences, pats on the back, and whispered regrets. Ten and I hovered around Bryan, but his partner was waiting outside, and it would be on Gatlin to support Bryan when we were all home.
“You took us this far,“ Ten reassured Bryan, squeezing his shoulder, and then he glanced at Gatlin, who nodded. Bryan was in good hands.
As I approached the parking lot, the sight of our SUV brought an unexpected lump to my throat. Stan was in the passenger seat, his crutches resting on the door, Eva and Margo stood beside the vehicle, waiting for me. I hadn’t taken more than a few steps before they bolted towards me, wrapping their arms around my waist, and loving me hard; they didn’t care about the loss; they cared about me.
“It’s okay, Dad,” Eva said first. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay now I’m getting hugged,” I said, as Margo burrowed into my arms.
Aching and tired I pulled away as they climbed into the car, only to lock eyes with Stan. He knew the weight of my disappointment, just as I recognized the frustration in his eyes—the sting of being sidelined during our most critical game.
“Too strong from Toronto,” Stan began, standing, supported by crutches, his voice carrying a tinge of sadness, but then he half smiled. “My hero,” he added, as I limped toward him, and half fell into his strong hold.
I wasn’t anyone’s hero tonight, I hadn’t pulled out a magic hat trick, I hadn’t scored a game-winning goal, and from the way I ached, all I’dactuallymanaged was survive another game.
“Is Bryan okay?” he asked after a while, as I leaned there and inhaled the scent of him, genuine concern evident in his tone.
