40. Eden
EDEN
My heart thrummed loud and steady in my chest, my nerves shooting through the roof as I tried my best to drown out the cheers from our fans as well as the ones from our opponents.
I played my fair share of nail-biting games before, but none of them came close to the way this year’s Frozen Four finals were making me feel.
Earlier today, I was glad to find out that I was going to play, that I didn’t have to spend my last ever NCAA game sitting on the stupid bench. But right now, I wished Coach had benched me.
The scoreboard read 2-2, and the Frozen Four final had turned into a horror movie. The clock ticked down from one minute, and I could feel every second pounding in every inch of my veins as I shifted from one foot to the other, sweat dripping from my temples despite the icy chill in the rink.
“Keep it together!” Coach’s voice echoed from the bench. As if I needed the reminder. Every fiber of me was locked in, tracking the puck as it moved between the opposing team’s forwards.
They were hungry; it was obvious in the way they zipped passes back and forth, their skates cutting clean arcs into the ice. But we were just as desperate, just as eager to bring home this win.
My guys had played their souls out. We had come back from a brutal first period, clawed our way up from a 2-0 deficit, and shut down every one of their power plays since.
The sweat-soaked, exhausted, and battered faces of my teammates were an unmistakable sign to show just how badly we wanted this.
“Thirty seconds!” someone yelled.
My focus tunneled, the noises of the crowd fading completely into the background like some kind of white noise.
The puck was at the blue line, then suddenly launched into our zone. I dropped low, tracking it as if my life depended on it, while one of the opposing forwards darted in. My D-man, Kaan, threw himself against the boards to stop their forward.
The puck slid loose.
I was ready for anything.
Anything, except that blind pass.
Their center swooped in, catching the puck mid-stride.
His stick cut a sharp arc as he fired it to the winger on my left.
I pushed off with my right skate, sliding across the crease just as the shot came rushing toward the top corner.
Glove out, I snatched it out of the air, closing my hand tight around it like it was my fucking lifeline.
The whistle blew. Cheers erupted from our bench. I flung the puck out to the referee and leaned on my stick, sucking in a breath as the seconds on the clock ticked by.
Fifteen left.
“Alright, Eden, you’ve got this,” I muttered to myself. My voice was swallowed by the chaos around me, but that was alright.
Just one more save.
One more clear, and we’d get to overtime.
And then? Who even knew?
The ref dropped the puck for the faceoff in our zone.
The Icehawk’s guys won it cleanly. The puck slid to their defenseman, who was hesitant for a split second before sending it wide to the left. The winger caught it on the blade and bolted toward the net. My net.
Ten seconds.
I crouched lower, instincts kicking in as the seconds ticked by in my head.
Seven.
Six.
The winger faked a shot, and I bit. He deked right and slid the puck to their center. The asshole was waiting right at the slot.
Four seconds.
I pushed off hard, closing the gap. My pad caught the first shot, deflecting it to the side.
Three seconds.
Their winger pounced on the rebound. Another shot, this one low. My stick was there, pushing the puck toward the corner.
Two seconds.
Then the puck landed right by one of their defensemen’s stick at the blue line.
My blood ran cold as he wound up.
One second
The slap shot was a missile. The puck came screaming through the bodies in front of me, a blur of black. I dropped, my glove hand snapping up instinctively, but I was too late.
The puck ripped past my shoulder and into the top corner of the net.
The goal horn blared, loud and merciless, and the arena exploded into even more chaos. Maybe a nanosecond later, the buzzer sounded through the arena, marking the end of the third and final period.
My stomach dropped, and for a moment, everything felt surreal, like the ice had vanished beneath me and I was falling. Endlessly falling.
I watched as the scoreboard flashed: 3-2.
I stayed frozen, crouched in my crease as the opposing team swarmed the ice, throwing gloves and helmets into the air. Their goalie skated the length of the rink, screaming with joy as his teammates tackled him.
My vision blurred, but it wasn’t from sweat.
Sharma skated over, his stick resting across his knee as he put a hand on my shoulder. “Hey. You did everything you could, man.”
I nodded softly, but I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, like a vice was squeezing it shut. Around me, the guys slumped off the ice, heads hanging low. Some kicked at the boards or threw their sticks in frustration. Others just skated slowly, silently, as if every step was a struggle.
After a short while, I finally stood and pulled off my helmet, letting the cool air sting my flushed face. My legs felt like lead as I skated to the bench. The crowd was still deafening, their cheers ringing in my ears. I didn’t look at them—couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Instead, I focused on the ice, on the scuffed marks and stray chips that had been carved into it during the game.
I failed them. All of them.
The fans.
My team.
Me.
I promised Alana I’d text her the moment I was in the locker room, yet when I finally reached it, my phone was the last thing on my mind. The silence was heavier than any words could’ve been. No one spoke. The clatter of gear being removed echoed off the walls, but no one looked at each other.
We’d come so fucking close. The win was basically ours… kind of. We would’ve won in overtime.
Coach stepped in, his face grim but not angry. These past four years, I’d learned that Coach was never expecting to win, ever, which was so strange. He was just happy to be here with us, would always encourage us no matter what. I kind of hated it right now.
“You gave it your all out there, boys. Every single one of you. I couldn’t be prouder of this team,” he said. The words were meant to comfort, but they just stung.
I swallowed hard and sat down, still gripping my mask like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
My chest felt hollow, as if not even my heart was in it anymore.
I thought about that slap shot, the one I missed by an inch.
Maybe less. I’d see it in my dreams tonight and probably for the rest of my goddamn life.
A few of the guys patted me on the shoulder or the top of my head as they passed, muttering things like “Great game, Eden” and “You did good out there.”
They were all lying. I knew they were lying.
All of them knew the win was ours, yet I let it slip through my fingertips.
Still, I forced a tight smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes.
I didn’t feel like I did even remotely good out there. I felt like the crumbling piece of a broken house that had let the whole damn thing collapse.
One after the other, the guys were heading toward the showers, the room getting emptier with each passing moment. And when it was only me left, I still sat there for a while longer, staring at the floor.
My pads were still on, the sweat drying uncomfortably against my skin. The sound of celebration echoed faintly from the ice, and I shut my eyes, letting the weight of it all settle in.
We’d fought like hell to get here all season. And we’d lost. By barely a second.
Because of me.