Page 83 of Pucking Amazing

“Anytime.” His hand lingers a beat longer than necessary before he stands. “Now let’s get back out there and kick some ass.”

The second period is a blur of close calls and near misses. We’re scrambling, the other team smelling blood in the water. They pepper me with shots but I hold the line, DJ’s words ringing in my ears.

Trust my instincts. Be the rock.

The clock winds down toward the second intermission and we’re locked in a 1-1 stalemate. Exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket. My reactions slow a fraction.

And that’s all it takes.

The forward winds up and fires a rocket from the point. I lunge...but I’m a heartbeat too late.

PING! The puck ricochets off the post and in, the goal light flashing red. Failure.

Devastated, I crumple to my knees as the crowd erupts in cheers, their triumphant roars salt in the wound.

Skating to the bench for the second intermission, I can’t meet my teammates’ eyes. The air crackles with barely contained anger and disappointment. They trusted me...and I blew it.

Slumping onto the bench, I stare at the floor, shame burning my face. Someone taps my pads.

“Hey. Chin up, kid,” DJ says softly. “It’s just one goal. We’ll get it back.”

I swallow hard and nod, but the lump in my throat remains. All I want to do is hide from the crushing weight of my failure. But I can’t. I’m the goalie—there’s nowhere to run. I have to suck it up, stuff down the hot sting of tears, and find a way to finish this game.

The final buzzer sounds and the Blizzards squeak out a 5-4 victory, no thanks to my lackluster performance in goal tonight. I skate off the ice with my head hung low, feeling the disappointment like a lead weight in my stomach.

As I make my way to the locker room, I spot a familiar face in the hallway.

Steven.

What the hell is he doing here? He never comes to my games. I plaster on a fake smile as we hug.

“Hey bro, surprised to see you here,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.

“Had to see my little brother starting in goal for myself,” he says, giving me an assessing look. I’ve been starting for most of the season but of course Steven chose tonight to swing by and judge me, a game where everything was on the line. “Let’s grab some food and catch up.”

We end up at a nearby sports bar, burgers and beers in front of us. I can already tell this isn’t going to be a pleasant brotherly chat by the critical look in Steven’s eyes.

“So how’s it going, moving into the big leagues?” he asks, taking a swig of his IPA.

I shrug. “It’s a big adjustment, a lot of pressure. But I’m working my ass off.”

Steven snorts in amusement. “You might want to step it up. You looked like a fucking rookie flailing around out there. At this rate, you’ll be warming the bench again in no time.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stare down at my plate, appetite gone. “I let in a couple bad goals, I know. I’m still adapting to?—”

“Save the excuses,” Steven cuts me off. “Words aren’t worth shit in hockey. You either perform or you’re out. And tonight, you sure as hell didn’t perform.”

I feel my face flushing with embarrassment and frustration. Getting reamed out by Coach is one thing, but by my own brother? The brother I’ve always looked up to, wanted to emulate?

“If you’re gonna make it in the pros, you need to be lights out, every single night,” Steven continues. “No room for fuck-ups or off games. Goalies are the backbone of any team. You lose your edge, you’re disposable.”

I sit in miserable silence, each word from him chipping away at my already shaky confidence. He’s only saying what I’ve been thinking myself.

That I don’t have what it takes.

That I’ll never live up to his legacy.

Steven was a first round recruit straight out of college and did five years in Denver before an injury cut his career short. He’s ten years older than me, which made him old enough to idolize, and also far enough in age that we were never close.

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