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Blake Wilder is now lying face down on the ice, pounding it with his giant glove. He gives a roar of anger and agony.
Crew McNeill skates over to him and bends down to murmur something to him. The rest of the Racketeers players have their heads hanging down in disappointment.
The Beavers are in a pile-on on the guy who scored the goal, sticks raised in triumph.
The arena is deathly silent, and I slowly turn to see Luna has her hand over her mouth in horror.
Dani, Mr. Armstrong’s wife, has tears running down her face.
The big man looks pissed. I start to back up and away, so I’m not on his radar.
Some smart dude once said there’s always next year, but that dude never met the owner of the Racketeers.
Mr. Armstrong can be fucking scary.
CHAPTER 6
Crew
We lost.
I can’t believe we fucking lost.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I was supposed to make the opposite happen.
And we fucking lost.
It’s all my fault. Of course, everyone is reassuring me that’s not the case. It was a team effort. Other people made mistakes too. Sure, but I’m the scorer for the team. The hotshot. That’s what I’m there for.
I didn’t score at all in our last game. In fact, I missed three shots. Sure, one would’ve been a miracle shot, but I should not have missed the other two.
I look down at the beer in front of me. I haven’t been able to drink in weeks. Tonight, of all nights, I should want to get shit-faced. But the beer tastes like shit. The music sounds like shit. Everything is shit.
And then worse, one of my favorite teammates and friends is a fucking eternal sunshine, and he chose the seat right across the table from me.
"Well, I’ve got to say, going home at the end of this season feels a lot better than it has for the past couple, right McNeill?" Alexsei Ryan has the audacity to actually grin at me.
Grin.
The night after the biggest loss of my career.
I scowl at him. I’m not in the fucking mood.
The coaches thought it was a good idea for us to come out and socialize tonight. And to show the fans and media that we’re out, coming together as a team, brushing off the loss and still celebrating our amazing season.
Fuck that.
Yeah, we had a hell of a season. We had a hell of a playoff season too. We should be proud.
Yeah, yeah. I hear it all. And even agree with it somewhere deep down. But I wanted it all. And it was right there.
I haven’t talked about it with anyone.
We made rules at home a long time ago about this. When we’re at home, we’re not Racketeers. We’re Crew, Nathan, and Michael. Not the star player, the team owner, and the team doctor.
But…fuck.
