Page 17 of With the Assist

The guys laugh. It’s the kind of ribbing only teammates who’ve bled beside you on the ice can throw without drawing blood. I toss my balled-up tape in Liam’s direction, pretending to be unfazed.

He responds by squeezing his water bottle at me, a cold stream hitting me in the chest. If it were anyone else, I’d be annoyed, but Liam is like a brother to me.

We met at a hockey camp when we were ten, our friendship surviving living in different states and going to different colleges. We both ended up with the same agent, Ryan Elliott, and eventually on the same professional team, a couple of years ago. It was the first time we got to play together, and we clicked immediately, becoming the best duo in professional hockey. Until my slump, at least.

“Glad I could keep you all entertained,” I say, bitter edges impossible to hide.

“You’ll bury the next one.” Grayson leans back on the bench without a care in the world. “Everybody has off nights.”

Off night.

If only it were just one. Unfortunately, this was a pattern, not the exception.

Luckily, Wyatt crushed it between the pipes, so we managed to skate by with a slim victory.

I stare at my gear, the pads scuffed and battered. I’m not supposed to be this guy, the one who doubts every step. I’m a confident veteran with ten years of professional play and the skills to show for it. Except lately, those skills are nowhere to be found.

A week ago, after the training session with Wesley, I felt electric. Maybe it was her, or maybe it was training somewhere new, doing new things.

I’ve played hockey since I was five. I’ve been on skates even longer. That’s over twenty-three years of doing the same drills and sprints. I still love the sport without question, but I’d be lying if I said my heart was in it the same way it used to be.

It makes me feel like an asshole. Guys all over the country would kill to be in my position, and I’m wasting it.

What the hell is wrong with me?

All it took was a day of training in a new way for me to think I was finally clawing my way out of this slump. For the first game thisweek, I was faster and hungrier. I could see it on the crowd’s faces. The excitement for the Wilder they know and love.

Now? The spark burnt out as fast as it came, doubt flooding right back in.

“Hey,” Liam says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re not the first guy to choke on a gimme.”

I don’t have a chance to answer because a knock cuts through the room’s noise. One of the assistant coaches sticks his head in.

“Wilder, Coach Rylan wants to see you.”

There’s a chorus of groans and drawn-out “oohs.” Someone mutters, “Dead man walking.” I pretend to laugh, but my heart dips hard.

I peel off the last of my gear, shove it into my bag, and head down the hallway. Each step feels heavier, like gravity doubled. Coach Rylan’s office waits at the end, the door cracked open with fluorescent light spilling out.

I remind myself that nothing he says to me can be worse than the thoughts already running through my head. I’m not playing great, sure, but it isn’t bad enough to ship me off to a farm team. At least I fucking hope not.

I knock once.

“Come in.”

I step inside. Coach Rylan sits behind his desk, his face set in the kind of seriousness that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“Sit.”

I do, pulse thudding in my ears.

“You know I believe in you,” he starts, voice even. “Always have. You’ve got the kind of talent guys dream of.”

For a moment, hope flickers. Then he crushes it.

“But talent and showing up aren’t translating into results.”

I swallow. “I know. I’m…”