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With determination coursing through me, I skate toward the net, realizing that this game holds everything on the line. Victory means a spot in the semifinals, but the alternative . . .
I silence the nagging doubts.
As I approach, the Chicago Blackhawks construct an impenetrable defensive wall in front of their goalie. Nevertheless, I’m determined to navigate through it.
“I’ve got your back!” a teammate’s voice rings out, and in an instant, I see three of my comrades racing alongside me,Blake among them. None of us is willing to relinquish our hold on the puck, not after the triumphant moments we’ve shared throughout the season. My resolve is unwavering as I aim to secure this critical goal and propel us into the semifinals.
Yet, just as I refocus on the blockade, a glint of bright blond hair in the stands catches my attention. In that split second, all awareness of my surroundings and the game’s stakes dissipates. With a foolish sense of distraction, I pivot to face the stands, searching for the owner of that distinctive hair.
It’s an unnecessary distraction, really. Spotting Britney White in a crowd has always been easy. Her avoidance of me over the past three weeks pales in comparison. My eyes quickly find her amid the spectators, her gaze riveted on the ice.
Only it’s not Britney. It’s an entirely different person.
“Alex! What thefuckare you doing?” Blake’s voice pulls me back to the game. I look down, realizing that an opposing player has swiped the puck from me in the split second I used to scan the stands. He’s now speeding toward the opposite end of the ice.
“Are you kidding me?” Carl, another teammate, skates up to me. “It’s the third time today you’ve made that mistake. If you don’t get it together, I swear I’m going to—”
Then the horn blares. I release a small sigh of relief, realizing that the Chicago Blackhawks won’t score again.
But then, it hits me.
The buzzer just signaled the end of the game.
They’ve won.
The stands erupt in applause, and the Blackhawks start to celebrate, hopping on each other and screaming their lungs out. My teammates are already skating off the ice, most of them maintaining a wide berth.
“And with that,” the reporter is bellowing somewhere above us, “the Chicago Blackhawks score themselves a place in the NHL semi-finals!”
I close my eyes, letting the pain course through me. If my teammates all punched me, I still wouldn’t have gotten what I deserved for letting them down this badly.
I messed up. Big time.
And yet, even with the fact that I almost singlehandedly ruined a full year’s work for my entire team, there’s still a part of my brain that couldn’t care less about it. Like a pathetic idiot, I still worry about Britney and where the hell she is.
My entire team has left the ice. The Blackhawks are still bellowing, now surrounded by cheering fans, but the Flyers section of the stands is emptying out. The coaches’ seats are empty too, but I can see Tanner striding over to me, looking more disappointed than I’ve ever seen him.
I skate off the ice and approach him, supremely thankful that all the news reporters today are fixated on the Blackhawks instead of me. The last thing I want to do is answer questions about why I played horribly. No doubt one of those idiots is going to find a way to bring Britney into the conversation.
And they wouldn’t be off base.
“Steinman,” Tanner begins, “I have no words. What the hell happened?”
I shrug, glad he’s not yelling. It’s taking all of my brain capacity to process losing this game and that Britney spontaneously stopped talking to me. My brain is going to combust if I have to deal with something else.
“I’ve only got two things to say to you,” Tanner grinds after I don’t reply. “First off, you better hope and pray with your fucking life that the New York Islanders lose their gamenext week. If they don’t, we’re out of the running. Second, you’re going to have to fix this. ASAP.”
I raise a brow. “Fix what?”
“This,” he spits, the slightest trace of anger in his voice. “Whatever the hell has got you all riled up. I’ve seen you play all your life, Steinman. I was the one who scouted you, remember? And I’ve never seen you miss so many shots in succession. Now I don’t want to fucking know what’s got your panties in a knot. But you’re going to fix it and fix it now. Or you’re going to be benched for the rest of the season. I mean it.”
Fix it.
It’s not that easy. Not even close.
But as I stare down at my steering wheel, I silently acknowledge that Coach Tanner is right.
I can’t spend three more weeks making a fool out of myself out there on the ice because I am so damn desperate, wondering why Brit is ghosting me. And while I sent her about a dozen texts, called her, and requested a massage about ten times, I had drawn the line at showing up uninvited at her door. It’s way too desperate.
