Page 155 of Offside Angle

Damian doesn’t hesitate.

“Shane! Bench!”

The moment we get possession, Shane is gone and another attacker is over the boards. Nobody needs the rest explained. There’s no saving energy, no worrying about getting caught deep, no thinking beyond the next touch of the puck because there is no later if we don’t find a goal now.

We throw everything forward.

Six skaters press into their zone while Vanguard collapses around the crease. Cole gets the puck near the side of the net and tries to jam it through, but their goalie stacks the pads and somehow keeps it out. The rebound kicks loose into traffic, and I dive toward it, getting enough of my stick on the puck to send it back toward the open side.

For one beautiful, horrifying second, I think it’s going in.

Their defenseman clears it off the goal line.

The crowd screams, and I’m scrambling back to my feet before my brain can even process how close we just came.

Thirty seconds.

We get the puck back in.

With twenty left, Elias wins the draw clean and drags it straight back toward me at the point. I settle it once, see nothing resembling a lane, and shoot anyway.

The puck leaves my stick hard enough that I feel it through both hands, but somebody steps into it. It catches a shin pad and kicks wide.

Cole gets there first and throws it back toward the crease with barely ten seconds left. Bodies crash together in front of the net, somebody swings at the rebound, and I’m already moving toward the loose puck when the horn sounds.

Everything stops.

One second I’m trying to get there, and the next there is nowhere left to go.

The season is over.

Vanguard pours onto the ice while I drop to my knees without deciding to, my stick resting across my thighs as my lungs keep dragging in air like there’s another shift coming. All I can do is stare at the scoreboard.

3–2.

One goal.

One stupid bounce.

That’s the whole difference between lifting the Cup in our own building and watching somebody else do it.

“Motherfucker!” Elias’s voice tears across the ice from somewhere near center, raw enough that it barely sounds like him.

Eventually, I make myself look for Santi.

He’s behind the glass, but for once the camera is hanging uselessly at his side. He’s staring up at the scoreboard l, one hand wrapped around the strap as if he forgot somewhere along the way that he’s supposed to be documenting any of this.

Even now, after three periods of watching us beat the shit out of ourselves only to lose on one miserable bounce, he’s so fucking handsome it almost hurts to look at him.

His eyes find mine through the glass.

There’s no attempt to make it better. No encouraging smile that tells me we’ll get them next year, no gesture telling me to keep my head up. Santi just gives me a small, sad smile that says he sees exactly how much this hurts and isn’t going to insult me by pretending it shouldn’t.

I manage something similar in return, then plant my stick against the ice and force myself back onto my feet.

We go to Shane first.

Nobody organizes it. We just end up there, one after another, tapping his pads and knocking gloves against his helmet while telling him he was fucking incredible tonight. The words sound inadequate after seven games and one deflection none of us could do anything about, but we say them anyway.