Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The puck dropped, but all I could hear was Rory’s cry echoing in my head—and I didn’t notice the play until it was already past me.
Foster won it clean, but the pass slid right under my stick at the blue line, and Colorado State’s top winger was gone.
This was the biggest game of our season so far, and my focus needed to be on the ice.
Instead, I was consumed with the memory of Rory screaming her head off when I left her with Sam.
Nothing I’d tried had worked to calm her down. I was almost late getting to the rink because the look she gave me as I left her nearly made me say “fuck it” and quit hockey right then and there.
How the hell did parents leave their kids with strangers? I mean, Sam wasn’t even a stranger and I felt like I’d left my heart at the house, and my head was a goddamn mess over it.
What if something was really wrong with her and I’d just left her again like I had last time?
For what? A hockey game I was failing at miserably? I’d probably do a better service to my team at this point if I wasn’t here at all.
The next shift didn’t go any better. Foster won the draw back to me, but my pass sailed wide—straight over our winger’s stick and onto Colorado State’s blade. They jumped on it instantly, charging back into our zone.
“Christ, Monty,” Liam called as we scrambled back, his Irish accent thicker with frustration. “You trying out for their team now?”
The entire first period was a disaster. I missed an easy assignment and left their center wide open.
Gordy had to make a miracle save. Then I fucked up a clearing attempt on our power play and gave them the puck right back.
Liam threw himself in front of their shot, and when he got back up, his jaw was clenched tight, and he was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“What the fuck is going on with you? You’re playing like this is your first time on the ice,” he asked during a line change, his usual cool replaced by frustrated concern.
“Rory was crying nonstop when I left and I’m worried about her.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “Drew, I love you like a brother, but you gotta focus on the ice right now. Sam’s got her. She’s fine. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to leave her with a babysitter. She’ll survive. Stop worrying and get your head in the game. We have to win this one.”
I knew he was right, but it was also clear he didn’t understand.
I didn’t think it was possible to change so abruptly, but being thrust into fatherhood had changed me on a fundamental level.
Yeah, this game was important, but it wasn’t life or death.
If something happened to my daughter…I couldn’t even think about it without panic slicing through my chest.
We made it out of the first tied 1-1. Foster scored on some beautiful individual shit, but Coach cornered me the second we hit the locker room.
“Drew,” he said, his voice firm but not angry. “I need you here. This team needs you here. What’s going on with you tonight? This is even worse than the game against Denver Tech. I’ve never seen you play this bad, not even in junior league.”
“I’m fine, Coach.”
“You’re not fine. If you were, you wouldn’t look like someone handed a hockey stick to Bambi out there.” He gripped the pads on my shoulders. “I need to know if you can do this, or if I need to bench you.”
The guys were all staring at me, waiting for my response.
And as if I needed any other doubts, I suddenly heard Harper’s voice from our study session yesterday.
I bet having a baby is really affecting your hockey performance.
The comment had fucking stung because I couldn’t deny how true it was. And my time on the ice today had only cemented that fact home. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t leave my shit at the door. I couldn’t just skate out on the ice with a single-minded focus of crushing our opponents.
And the biggest problem was that I had no clue how to fix it.
“I can do this, Coach. I’ll get my head in the game.”
Unfortunately, that ended up not being the case, and second period was worse than the first.
First shift, I lost my gap on their top winger, giving him a clean lane into our zone. I recovered just in time to get my stick in the way, but it deflected the puck right onto another Ram’s blade. Gordy bailed me out with a blocker save that rattled off the glass.
A few minutes later, I mishandled a simple D-to-D pass on the breakout.
The puck hopped over my stick, and by the time I turned to chase it down, their forechecker was already on me.
I tried to chip it up the boards, but instead coughed it right to their point man, who ripped a shot that caught the post.
By the midway mark, I was so far in my own head that even my positioning went to hell. On the penalty kill, I chased the puck behind the net and left their guy parked in the slot wide open. They didn’t miss that one. Red light. 2–1, Rams.
Coach didn’t even wait for the shift to end. He was on his feet at the bench, jaw tight, motioning me over. “That’s it, Monty. You’re done for now,” he barked as I stepped off the ice. “Grab some water and figure your shit out.”
I watched the rest of the game from the bench, and guilt burned like acid in my gut as my team played better without me on the ice. I was supposed to be an asset, not a liability.
It was a close game, but Foster scored the winning goal with a perfect shot between the goalie’s pads right before the time ran out in the third period.
The arena went nuts as the crowd cheered and I watched the guys on my team piling on each other with smiles. We were going to the championship.
But all I felt was hollow.
Who the hell was I if I wasn’t able to play hockey without getting distracted by worrying about my daughter?