Off Season (Chicago Thunder #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ethan

The puck sails over Elliot’s left shoulder, into the back of the net, and the arena practically vibrates as the visiting fans cheer and applaud in celebration.

The LA bench clears and players swarm the ice to revel in their victory, and while my heart is thumping hard against my chest from the adrenaline, my head drops in defeat.

We came so fucking close.

Game seven.

Double overtime.

We were so close to clinching the Western Conference Champions title. We had the Stanley Cup Finals within touching distance, but we couldn’t grasp it. All we can do now is watch as Los Angeles celebrates.

Bending at the waist, I rest my stick over my thighs and focus on my breathing. It’s like there’s an invisible band squeezing my lungs, and an ache rooted deep in my chest as a million and one emotions rush through me.

Frustration. Anger. Sadness. Envy.

But there’s still pride among all the negative feelings. Even though I’m fucking distraught, I’m proud that we fought so hard, even if it wasn’t enough to get the W.

Our goaltender, Elliot Olsen, skates over and sniffs, trying to contain the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. His eyes are filled with unshed tears behind his cage, the protective padding doing nothing to hide how his body is trembling from his ragged breathing.

I stand to full height and bring him in for a hug, knowing nothing I say or do will be able to soothe the heartbreak he’s experiencing.

I’ve been here before—many times—but this was his first playoff experience, and it hurts more when we were this close to making it.

“You gave it everything you could, El,” I say reassuringly. “You played your heart out, and I’m so proud of you.”

And he did. He played fucking amazingly and made some incredible saves.

“But if I didn’t let in that g-goal—” he hiccups, sucking in another sharp breath. He’s trying his damndest to hold himself together.

“No,” I interrupt, shaking my head as I pull away to look into his glassy eyes. I remove my glove and place my hand on his shoulder pad, giving him a slight shake. “This isn’t on you, okay? There’s a lot of things we could have done better, but you can’t think like that. This isn’t on you.”

It’s easy to be consumed by the ugly emotions that follow a big loss. To allow disappointment to rush through our veins and focus on the mistakes. The what-ifs and could-have-beens.

We’ll work together on how to improve, and we’ll bounce back.

We always do.

He gives me a shaky nod. I know he doesn’t believe me right now, but he will in time.

It’s all part of the game.

Highest highs and lowest lows.

I’ve been in the league long enough that I’m used to the emotional rollercoaster it brings, but some of these guys? It’s their first playoff. Hell, for some of them, it’s their first year in the NHL.

Elliot turns to lean on Blaine, his twin brother and our teammate, who’s also trying to hold back his emotions.

This fucking sucks.

Raising my hand, I rub the hollow spot in my chest over my pads and skate to center ice when it’s time to shake the opposing players’ hands.

“Great series, Parkes.” Edwards, LA’s captain, brings me in for a bro-hug, slapping my shoulder with his gloved hand. “It’s been a great run.”

“Good luck, man. I hope it works out for you.”

And I mean it. We were drafted in the same year, and this is his final shot at the cup because he announced his retirement a few weeks ago.

That’ll be you soon.

Fuck off, conscience; give me a break. I’m trying to keep it together here.

Once I’ve shaken hands with every player and staff member, I head back down the tunnel and return to the locker room. I sit down in my cubby, resting my elbows on my knees before dropping my head into my hands.

These guys worked so hard this season and played some of the best hockey of their careers. Even when we were hit with injuries, we kept pushing harder every game. We stepped onto the ice with determination and hunger to win.

We wanted this win.

We deserved to win, and as captain, I feel responsible for our loss. I feel like I’ve failed my team.

I’ve failed our fans.

I’ve failed myself.

And I’m fucking devastated.

What could I have done better?

Ugh . For fuck’s sake.

There’s nothing I can do now except move forward: study tape to see what can be improved, train hard during the off-season, and channel our energy into making next season our season.

My jaw clenches, and I quickly blink away the burn from my eyes at the sound of someone hitting their cubby in anger.

I need to get my shit together.

I need to be the strong one for the team. The one guy they can depend on to help ease the weight of their own emotions.

The atmosphere is somber when the rest of the guys filter in. Some just sit and stare at nothing, lost in their own heads, while others undress without a word. There’s no post-game playlist. No rogue socks being thrown or asses slapped with damp towels.

Just this painful silence and heaviness in the air .

I don’t move. I just lift my head slightly, resting my chin on my steepled fingers, and watch this great group of guys for the last time.

I’ve been playing in the NHL since I was drafted by the Thunder nearly twenty years ago, but time doesn’t make it any easier.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve been in this game for one year or almost two decades.

You spend more time with these guys than you do with your family.

You build connections and lasting friendships, and while trades and retirements are all part of the game, it doesn’t make knowing I’ll never play with this group again suck any less.

Coach Harris walks in. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his pressed pants, exhaustion clear on his face. He takes a moment to look at all of us individually before running a hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

“I’m really proud of every single one of you.

I’m proud of this team and what we’ve accomplished.

You guys worked so fucking hard this season.

The time and commitment you’ve put in has been incredible.

You deserved this win, and I’m disappointed for you all that the season ended this way.

Unfortunately, you know it’s the way it goes sometimes in hockey, but I want you all to know you should be proud of yourselves, and we’ll come back fighting next year. ”

I clench my jaw again as my chin wobbles slightly. Normally, I would follow up with a few words of my own, but tonight I can’t speak. The words are lodged in my throat. All I can do is nod and grunt, agreeing with every word Coach says.

Blaine gives me a sad smile, squeezing my shoulder before disappearing into the showers.

One by one, they give me a fist bump or shoulder squeeze as they move to the showers until I’m the only one left in the room, still sitting fully dressed, staring at the mountain of jerseys in the laundry hamper.

I haven’t even unlaced my skates. I’m frozen in time with nothing but a dull fucking ache deep in my chest. Twisting like a knife.

Is this loss hitting me harder because the dreaded R-word keeps filtering more frequently through my mind?

It’s fairly common that once a player hits the big three-oh, the imaginary timer begins to count down the years you’ve got left in the league.

Recovery takes longer, aches and pains become more regular, and younger guys keep getting faster.

So much faster.

I’m not naive enough to think I have many seasons left, but fuck, this loss is hitting me harder than ever.

And not just emotionally.

Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, I squash my emotions down and start to undress. This isn’t the time or place for me to feel sorry for myself. After I carefully place each piece of equipment in its designated place in my cubby, I head into the showers.

“Ethan, you’re up for interviews in ten!” I hear the team’s public relations coordinator, Colleen, call out as I rinse the shampoo from my hair.

That’s another thing I dread. The press.

I don’t want to answer questions about how I feel, or what we can do better, or what the morale is like in the locker room, or what I will miss most about this group of guys.

Sometimes I think they purposely ask stupid questions to see if they can get a rise out of me.

Once showered, I throw on a team-branded dry-fit t- shirt and athletic shorts and slip my feet into my slides. I follow Colleen out to the press area, where there are at least two dozen reporters looking at me with sympathetic faces.

I want to tell them all and their sad-looking faces to fuck off, but I don’t. I can’t. I’ve been trained better than that, and I know they’re not really sad. They’re vultures waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness.

Instead, I sit down at the table behind a microphone and cast a sideways glance at Colleen, trying to tell her without words that I don’t want to be here. The anguish must be evident on my face because she sends a genuine apologetic smile my way.

I don’t need to harp on about how shitty this feels, because while the pain is immeasurable right now, I know losing is only temporary.

Thankfully, they accept my grunts and grumbled answers— yeah, it sucks we lost. I’m proud of the team.

I’m disappointed our season ended this way.

Yeah, we’ll review tape in a couple of days.

This group has played some great hockey.

Yeah, the morale is low, but we’ll bounce back stronger next season, blah blah fucking blah, and finally, after a long, torturous hour, I’m parking my car in the underground parking lot beneath my apartment building.