Then the puck landed right by one of their defensemen’s stick at the blue line.
My blood ran cold as he wound up.
One second
The slap shot was a missile. The puck came screaming through the bodies in front of me, a blur of black. I dropped, my glove hand snapping up instinctively, but I was too late.
The puck ripped past my shoulder and into the top corner of the net.
The goal horn blared, loud and merciless, and the arena exploded into even more chaos. Maybe a nanosecond later, thebuzzer sounded through the arena, marking the end of the third and final period.
My stomach dropped, and for a moment, everything felt surreal, like the ice had vanished beneath me and I was falling. Endlessly falling.
I watched as the scoreboard flashed: 3-2.
I stayed frozen, crouched in my crease as the opposing team swarmed the ice, throwing gloves and helmets into the air. Their goalie skated the length of the rink, screaming with joy as his teammates tackled him.
My vision blurred, but it wasn’t from sweat.
Sharma skated over, his stick resting across his knee as he put a hand on my shoulder. “Hey. You did everything you could, man.”
I nodded softly, but I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, like a vice was squeezing it shut. Around me, the guys slumped off the ice, heads hanging low. Some kicked at the boards or threw their sticks in frustration. Others just skated slowly, silently, as if every step was a struggle.
After a short while, I finally stood and pulled off my helmet, letting the cool air sting my flushed face. My legs felt like lead as I skated to the bench. The crowd was still deafening, their cheers ringing in my ears. I didn’t look at them—couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Instead, I focused on the ice, on the scuffed marks and stray chips that had been carved into it during the game.
I failed them. All of them.
The fans.
My team.
Me.
I promised Alana I’d text her the moment I was in the locker room, yet when I finally reached it, my phone was the last thing on my mind. The silence was heavier than any words could’vebeen. No one spoke. The clatter of gear being removed echoed off the walls, but no one looked at each other.
We’d come so fucking close. The win was basically ours… kind of. We would’ve won in overtime.
Coach stepped in, his face grim but not angry. These past four years, I’d learned that Coach was never expecting to win, ever, which was so strange. He was just happy to be here with us, would always encourage us no matter what. I kind of hated it right now.
“You gave it your all out there, boys. Every single one of you. I couldn’t be prouder of this team,” he said. The words were meant to comfort, but they just stung.
I swallowed hard and sat down, still gripping my mask like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. My chest felt hollow, as if not even my heart was in it anymore. I thought about that slap shot, the one I missed by an inch. Maybe less. I’d see it in my dreams tonight and probably for the rest of my goddamn life.
A few of the guys patted me on the shoulder or the top of my head as they passed, muttering things like “Great game, Eden” and “You did good out there.”
They were all lying. I knew they were lying.
All of them knew the win was ours, yet I let it slip through my fingertips.
Still, I forced a tight smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes.
I didn’t feel like I did even remotely good out there. I felt like the crumbling piece of a broken house that had let the whole damn thing collapse.
One after the other, the guys were heading toward the showers, the room getting emptier with each passing moment. And when it was only me left, I still sat there for a while longer, staring at the floor.
My pads were still on, the sweat drying uncomfortably against my skin. The sound of celebration echoed faintly from the ice, and I shut my eyes, letting the weight of it all settle in.
