65. LANE
LANE
Sitting in the press box is damn near torture. I’m wearing team gear but Coach didn’t even have me warm up. That means that even if three players broke their legs and they needed to call on me, he wouldn’t.
It’s too fucking quiet. On the ice, everything is noise—skates carving, sticks cracking, the dull thud of bodies hitting the glass. Here it’s muffled, like I’m miles away.
I sit forward in the folding chair, elbows on my knees, watching my team struggle through another broken shift.
Minnesota clears the zone again. We dump it right back. No structure. No rhythm.
Everything is off.
One of the assistants next to me scribbles something on a lineup sheet. No one talks to me. Not that I blame them. This shit show of a game is my fault. Our team is talented, but we’ve been in such a groove with me in the lineup, it’s a tough loss to make up for.
It should make me feel better, knowing that I was making such a positive impact, but it one hundred percent makes me feel worse.
Healthy scratch. The phrase keeps circling in my head.
Leo misses a pass at the blue line and the puck slides out of the zone again. He slams his stick against the boards and I swear I can feel it in my chest.
It’s the second period and we’re still down by one. Not sure we’ve even had more than five shots on goal at this point. Brutal.
Minnesota scores again and their crowd explodes. 2–0. I lean back in the chair and drag a hand over my face.
Hockey is all about timing. You spend an entire season learning where the other guy is going to be before he even gets there. Take one piece out and the whole thing shifts.
Right now the whole thing looks… crooked.
The third period starts and the guys come out pressing. Too hard. We turn the puck over twice in the neutral zone. Minnesota capitalizes on the second one.
3–0.
The coaches next to me sigh and deflate with each passing minute.
Looking to the bench, I see Troy is barking directions, trying to keep everyone locked in. Guys are forcing plays. Forcing everything. And I’m up here, being fucking useless.
I hate that I can’t be with them.
The horn finally sounds and the game ends exactly how it felt like it would the entire night. With Great Lakes U getting their asses kicked.
My team skates with their head down and it kills me.
I move with the assistants and other staff that are in the press box.
I don’t even go to the locker room tonight.
They make sure I’m with them when we get to the area with our bags—everyone grabs their things and we’re the first ones on the bus.
We’ll go back to the hotel and have to come back and play in this same place tomorrow.
I’m dreading it.
The lights are dim. The familiar rows of seats feel different when the guys aren’t here yet—too quiet, too clean. Like I’m early to something I’m not really invited to.
I take a seat about halfway back. Not the front with the coaches and not the back where the guys usually pile in. Just… the middle.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring out the window at the arena doors.
They start coming out about twenty minutes later. First a couple freshmen, still in sweats, talking quietly. They climb on the bus without looking up, heads low as they move past me.
“Good game,” I say automatically. One of them nods but they keep going.
More guys follow with their bags slung over their shoulders. Faces tight from the loss.
“Nice try tonight,” I say to one of the juniors as he steps past. He gives me a quick, polite nod.
Leo comes on a few players later. For a second I think he might stop but he doesn’t. Just gives me a brief look and heads to the back of the bus.
The seats behind me start filling. Low, frustrated voices making their way to the front. Someone mutters something about turnovers. Someone else says tomorrow’s game is a must-win.
No one sits next to me and the seat across the aisle stays empty, too. I lean back, staring out the window again as the last of the guys climb aboard.
Troy comes on near the end. He pauses halfway down the aisle when he sees me. For a second I think maybe he’ll sit. Instead, he gives me a tired nod but keeps walking.
An assistant counts and makes sure we have everyone. The door folds shut with a hiss and the bus pulls away from the arena.
Behind me, the guys start talking quietly about the game. Trying to figure out how the hell to have a different outcome tomorrow night.
I sit there, staring out into the dark Minnesota night, listening to my team try to fix something I should be helping them with. And for the first time since Coach handed down the suspension, it hits me. Watching them lose is worse than not being able to play.
That’s the real punishment.