Chapter 7
seven
Luke
The building felt heavier than it had two nights ago. Minnesota had the series lead and they wanted it locked down tonight.
I sat at my stall and went through the usual routine. Tape. Straps. Jersey. Bryan was already dressed two stalls down, quiet, one knee bouncing. The room stayed mostly silent.
Eli stopped in front of me while I adjusted my blocker.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
He held my eyes a second longer than usual. “Stay ready. Nights like this turn fast.”
I nodded. He moved on.
Game Two felt different from the opening puck drop, and not just because we were still in enemy territory.
There was a sharpness to the Wolves tonight, a coordinated hunger in the way they attacked the same soft spots Bryan had been struggling to cover all series, like they'd spent the last forty-eight hours studying exactly where he was breaking.
But by the time the second period was underway, we were up a goal.
Eli and Finn had connected on the power play early in the period, a quick transition through the neutral zone that ended with Finn burying a one-timer before the Wolves’ penalty kill could get set.
1-0. The bench came alive in a way it hadn't all series.
I stood at the glass and let myself believe, for about eleven minutes, that this one might actually go our way.
Then the intermission hit and the mood shifted.
Between periods, Coach Greaves had gathered us, voice low and hard in the specific way that meant he wasn't interested in comfortable words.
"Your transition to defense is slowing down," he said, looking around the room. "Wolves are adjusting. They're finding seams we gave them for free in the second. Defense needs to step up right now, or this lead evaporates."
His eyes landed on Bryan last. “Too many second-chance looks. We need pucks frozen, not deflected into scrums.”
Bryan nodded, his jaw tight. He dragged a hand down his face and stared at the ground.
I watched him while the trainers circled the room with water bottles. Something was off with him—had been since Game One, honestly, some hitch in his rhythm that nobody else seemed to be noticing the way I was, but I didn’t know what to do with it.
I checked in with myself, too. A little sensitivity to the crowd noise, maybe, nothing that I couldn’t deal with. Ready, if anyone needed me, which nobody would tonight. Bryan was starting. Bryan would finish.
The third period was a war.
The Wolves found the seam Coach had warned about and hammered it relentlessly.
Wave after wave of pressure that had our whole bench on its feet more than once.
Bryan made solid saves, but the rebounds kept squirting free instead of dying under his pads, little gifts he couldn't seem to stop handing out.
I tracked every sequence from the end of the bench.
“Rebound left. Get there.” The words stayed under my breath.
With five minutes left, they capitalized. Quick turnover at our blue line, a shot from the point. Bryan couldn’t corral it clean. The rebound sat in the crease for half a second too long. Their winger arrived first and jammed it home.
1-1.
The building erupted. Our bench went quiet. Eli skated past the crease on the way to the faceoff and said something short to Bryan I couldn’t hear. Bryan nodded once and set himself again.
We barely held on through regulation. It turned into sudden death overtime. The whole building screaming for the kill.
It came fast and ugly.
A routine clearing attempt hopped over a stick at our own blue line. Bryan was a half-step out of position on the ensuing rush. The Wolves’ winger found just enough daylight on the front post and ended it.
The horn. The building exploding. Our bench dead silent.
I sat there a long moment before I trusted myself to move, jaw clenched so hard it ached, thinking about every save I would have made differently and knowing that thought did nobody any good right now.
Two games. Two losses.
I stood last and followed the line up the tunnel while the celebration noise poured down the concrete walls behind us. It was official, the Finals had started on a bad note.
The locker room was quiet. Everyone still in pads. No one could bring themselves to watch the game tape. Guys sat with their heads down. Equipment hit the floor harder than necessary.
Coach didn’t raise his voice. Somehow that was worse. He just talked, low and even, about focus and structure and the fact that we were better than two losses suggested, and everybody sat there absorbing it like a punch they'd seen coming.
I was professionally supportive of Bryan in that room, the way I always was, telling him the next game was a clean slate.
Inside, something was clawing at the back of my throat, the same voice that had been asking for three years how many more nights I was supposed to watch from the bench while pucks went in that I was certain I could have stopped.
I didn’t say any of that out loud.
I left the room before the rest of the team finished dressing and stood in the hallway outside the loading area, phone already in my hand. The fury was still close to the surface. I typed before I could talk myself out of it.
That was a joke. Two games. Two goals that should've been stopped.
She answered faster than I expected given the hour.
You need to be patient. This is a long series.
I'm running out of patience. I've been patient for three years. This was our chance. I don't expect you to understand what's at stake.
The reply took longer this time.
That’s not fair to say to me right now.
She was right. I knew it the second I read the words back. The anger drained out of me almost as fast as it had arrived.
You’re right. I’m sorry. Bad night, taking it out on the wrong person.
I know. I get it.
I stood in the hallway, phone in hand, watching the rest of the team file past toward the bus, and felt something in my chest ease.
Another text came through.
You're not my patient anymore, by the way.
I know.
Which means I don't have to pretend anymore...
I went hot and cold at once. Couldn't breathe. Was this her way of cutting communications with me? I was about to type when?—
I'm going to ask Maya to take Lily this weekend, she continued. So we can actually talk. In private. About whatever this is.
I let out the breath I was holding and typed back before I could second-guess it.
I would like that more than anything.
Then let's keep it quiet. Just us, for now. Figure it out before anyone else knows about us.
Deal.
We got out of the building as fast as we got blown off the ice.
I boarded the bus last and took a window seat.
The ride back to the airport was quiet. Guys stared at phones or closed their eyes.
Everyone nursed their own version of tonight's loss.
I replayed every rebound Bryan hadn't frozen, every seam the defense had left open, everything I would have done differently if Coach had trusted me with the net.
I watched the city lights move past and let the frustration of the overtime loss sit beside the excitement that her last texts had left in my chest.
And for the first time in a long time, something that had nothing to do with hockey felt equally worth waiting for.