9 - Michael
Michael
Frost Bank didn’t feel like home tonight. There was a looming sense of foreboding. Every breath felt like inhaling static electricity, and the roar of the crowd didn't just hit my ears. It vibrated in my teeth.
I stood at the blue line during the anthem, my helmet tucked under my arm, staring at the logo at center ice.
My head should’ve been a fortress of X’s and O’s.
Instead, it was a leaking faucet. I kept seeing the way Kayla’s fingers had brushed my hand the night before.
I kept hearing that word: Friend. It was a mercy killing disguised as an olive branch, and it was currently rattling around my skull like a loose puck.
"Landry, wake up," Landon muttered, bumping my shoulder as the lights came up. "Game face on. This isn't a scrimmage."
I blinked, forcing the memory of Kayla’s weary smile out of my mind.
"I'm on it."
But I wasn't.
The Minnesota Wild were a heavy, suffocating team.
They played a trap game that required absolute precision to break.
From the first drop of the puck, I felt a step behind.
My timing was off by a fraction of a second, the kind of margin that didn’t matter in October but was a death sentence in April.
Midway through the first period, we were tied 0-0.
Mason won a draw in the offensive zone, pulling it back to Tucker at the point.
I moved to my spot in the high slot, calling for the deflection.
Tucker looked at me, hesitated—that lingering distrust still coloring his vision—and then fired a slap-pass.
It was a beauty, aimed right for my blade.
I reached for it, but my brain lagged. Instead of a clean redirect into the top corner, the puck skipped over my stick and cleared the zone. The Wild transitioned instantly.
"Move your feet, dammit!" Hunter yelled from the crease as the play turned back toward him.
Hunter was the only reason we weren't down by three. He was playing like a man possessed, his glove hand snapping out to rob the Wild’s top scorers again and again. He was doing his job. I was busy wondering if I’d overstepped by buying those damn cookies.
The second period was a grind. The score was 1-1 after Grayson buried a rebound off a shot from Aiden. The arena shook, our fans sensing the momentum shift. We were on a power play, and my unit was out to seal the deal.
Cash was quarterbacking from the top. He zipped a pass to Shawn on the wing, who looked for me in the bumper spot. I saw the lane open, saw the Wild defender cheating toward the post. All I had to do was take the pass and fire.
Shawn sent the puck and I leaned into the shot, but my edge caught a rut in the ice.
Or maybe I just wasn't balanced because I was thinking about the look on Gabe’s face.
I fumbled it hard, and the puck died between my skates.
A Wild penalty killer pounced on it, chipping it past me and racing down the ice for a shorthanded breakaway.
Hunter stood tall, stopping the initial shot with a pad save that sounded like a gunshot, but the fatigue was starting to show in his posture.
"Clean it up, Twenty-two!" Coach screamed from the bench.
His words followed me into the third period, which arrived like a funeral shroud.
The score stayed 1-1, the tension reaching a breaking point.
With four minutes left on the clock, we were hemmed in our own zone.
I was gassed, my lungs burning, the self-doubt finally curdling into a heavy lead weight in my gut.
If there was a way out of this, it was gonna have to come from someone else.
I was covering the point. The Wild defenseman, a big guy named Suter, faked a shot. I bit like a schmuck, and lunged to block it, leaving my feet. A rookie mistake. He pulled the puck back, walked around my sliding body, and fired a low shot toward the net.
Hunter made the save, but the rebound popped out into the low slot.
It was mine. I was the closest man. I just had to sweep it into the corner to let the boys reset. But as I scrambled to my feet, I saw Tucker coming in hot from the other side. For a split second, I hesitated. Wondered if he was going to hit me. If he’d let me have it.
That micro-second of internal politics was the end of it.
A Wild forward dived past my outstretched stick, poked the puck under Hunter’s sliding blocker, and tucked it into the net.
2-1, Minnesota.
The silence in the arena was deafening. It was the kind of quiet that made my ears ring. I stayed on one knee, my head hanging, watching the Wild players celebrate in a huddle near our net.
"Great work, Landry," Tucker hissed, skating past me and intentionally spraying ice over my jersey. "Way to lead."
What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?
We pulled Hunter for the extra attacker in the final minute, and threw everything at them.
Mason hit the post. Aiden had a wide-open net and missed by an inch.
I had the puck on my stick with ten seconds left, deep in the corner.
I looked for the pass, looked for the hero play to atone for my series of mistakes, but the Wild defense closed in like a vice.
I tried to muscle through with sapped strength. And lost the puck.
The final horn blared, a long, mournful electronic scream that signaled the end of Game 1. We had lost on home ice. Lost the momentum. And as the Wild celebrated, I looked toward our goal.
Hunter still stood in his crease, leaning on his stick with his head down. He’d stopped thirty-eight shots, and it hadn't been enough because I couldn't keep my head in the game.
I skated toward the tunnel, the loss burning the back of my throat.
I’d told Kayla I could play defense. I’d told myself I was a professional.
But as I caught my reflection in the glass of the boards, I didn't see a veteran leader.
I saw a man who was losing his grip on everything.
The game, the girl, and the respect of the room.
I was in the friend zone at the bar, and I was in the doghouse on the ice. And right now, I didn't know which one hurt more.
Sitting in the locker room, the quiet is what got to me. Usually, there was a low hum of post-game recovery. Ripping tape, the hiss of the shower, muttered debriefs between the guys. Tonight, there was only the rhythmic tika-tika-tika of thumbs hitting glass screens.
I sat on my bench, staring at the scarred laces of my skates. I didn't need to look at my phone to know what was happening. The blue light reflected off the faces of the guys around me told the story.
"Unbelievable," Mason muttered, his jaw tight as he stared at his screen. "ESPN’s already got the clip up. The Veteran Blunder. They’re calling it the turning point of the series."
"They're saying we’re too old in the middle," Aiden added, his voice flat. He didn't look at me, but the subtext was a spotlight. "That the trade was a desperation move that backfired in Game 1."
I kept my back to them, methodically sliding my pads into my gym bag. I felt the heat of their collective gaze, a prickle of resentment that usually resulted in a confrontation. But tonight, they weren't even giving me the dignity of a fight.
Grayson stood up, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. He looked at the room, his eyes lingering on Landon and Tucker. "I’m going to the Faucet," he said, his voice echoing in the tiled space. "I need to drown this game in something a lot stronger than Gatorade. Who’s in?"
"I'm in," Tucker said, standing immediately.
"Me too," Cash added.
I stayed hunched over my bag, my hands moving with deliberate slowness. I waited for the beat. The "You coming, Landry?" or even a sarcastic "Don't trip on your way out, Seattle."
It never came.
I listened to the symphony of their departure.
The heavy thud of the exit door, the fading chime of their laughter, the sudden, ringing vacuum of a room that was suddenly far too large for one person.
I wasn't mad. If anything, the isolation felt like a relief.
I didn't have the energy to pretend I was okay, and I certainly didn't have the words to explain why a thirty-six-year-old pro had played like a nervous rookie.
Once they were gone, I grabbed my bag but didn’t head out.
The press would be camped by the player’s lot like vultures over a fresh kill, microphones poised to pick apart my mental lapse.
Instead, I stripped down to my gym shorts and a gray compression vest and headed for the team’s private training center.
The gym was a cathedral of brushed steel and rubber, illuminated by dim, motion-sensor lights.
Outside the high windows, I could still hear the muffled roar of the San Antonio crowd filtering out of the arena.
The restless, disappointed honking of horns and the low rumble of a city that had expected a blowout and got a heartbreak instead.
I went for the kettlebells first.
Swing. Snap. Breathe. The rhythm was supposed to be meditative, but every time the weight reached its apex, I saw the puck sliding under Hunter’s blocker.
Swing. Snap. Breathe. I saw Kayla’s face when she told me she didn't have room for a complication.
I was mid-set, the sweat slicking my skin and stinging my eyes, when the door to the training room wheezed open. If I stopped, the gravity of the night would catch up to me. So I didn’t.
"You’re supposed to have light recovery after a game, Michael. You don’t punish yourself until your heart explodes."
I finished the set, lowered the weight to the rubber mat with a controlled thud, and leaned over with my hands on my knees. My breath came in short, burning stabs.
Casey, the Surge’s lead physio, leaned against the squat rack. She had her hair pulled back in a practical bun and carried a clipboard that seemed permanently fused to her arm. Younger than the trainers I was used to back home, but warmer. Which made her more effective, in a way.
"Press still out there?" I rasped, wiping my face with the hem of my vest.