Page 31 of The Perfect Snipe

Chapter 13

Leo

I lace up my skates, my fingers moving on autopilot. The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy, but I'm disconnected from it all. I’m still struggling to shake off the heavy, unsettling feeling that's been plaguing me since I woke up this morning. And the familiar routine is doing little to calm my nerves. Instead, every tug feels like it's cinching tighter around my chest instead of just securing my skates.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, yanking the waxed laces with more force than necessary.

Wyatt glances over, his brow furrowed. “You good?”

I grunt noncommittally, avoiding his gaze. How can I tell him I feel like I'm drowning? That every game feels like it could be my last? He's my friend, sure, but he's also my teammate.

And I'm the captain. I can't show weakness.

The sinking feeling that my career is already in its twilight years settles over me like a heavy blanket. My body knows it,even if my mind rebels against the notion. Every creak of my joints, every twinge of an old injury serves as a stark reminder.

And I have nothing to show for it.

The thought hits me like a body check, leaving me winded. A chill runs over my skin, goosebumps rising along my arms. Self-doubt always brings me back to that night with Wendy, to the promise I made as I held her hand in mine. The memory of her tired smile, the faith in her eyes as I swore to win a championship for her.

But I can't let her down, not when I've sacrificed so much, not when I've pushed my body to its limits year after year. And especially not after I've missed so many of my kids' milestones, justified by the pursuit of this dream.

I run my calloused fingers over the tape on my stick, a gesture I've repeated countless times over my career. The rough texture grounds me, even as everything else seems to spin out of control.

Wyatt's heavy hand claps my shoulder. “Come on. Let's do this.”

I nod, pushing to my feet. Time to be the captain, the leader they need me to be. I square my shoulders and lead the team out onto the ice. “Let’s show them what we're made of.”

We take to the ice for warm-ups, and I force myself to focus on the familiar routines. The scrape of blades on ice, the satisfying thwack of puck meeting stick—it should be comforting. Instead, each sound seems to echo the ticking clock of my career.

I take a few laps, trying to shake off the heaviness in my limbs. People are still coming into the arena. Common for weekday games. Most fans are just getting off of work. Not that I’d spot any familiar faces.

Or at least, none tonight since it’s a school night.

After taking a few shots on net, I make my way over to where Morrow is stretching. Dropping down, I extend out a leg to loosen my hamstring. “Ready for tonight?”

“As much as I can be.” He maneuvers to stretch his hip flexors. “Heard they have some secret analytics thing they are working on. Some are saying it’s one of the reasons they are doing so well.”

“Read something like that myself online.” I switch legs. “How’re you doing otherwise?”

The kid’s still very reserved and I can’t tell if he’s just quiet or if he’s withdrawing. My vote is on the latter being I’ve caught him chastising himself on more than one occasion. But it still doesn’t explain why he avoids us.

Even I’ve been out to the bar with the guys on occasion. Okay, more so when I had to babysit Wyatt.

“Fine. Just adjusting. Looks like warm-ups are done.” The last word is barely out as he skates away.

A few minutes later the first period starts, and it's clear we're not clicking. Passes go astray, ricocheting off skates or sailing wide of their intended targets. Shots miss the net, pinging off the boards with disappointing thuds. Our defensive coverage is spotty at best, leaving gaping holes for the opposing team to exploit.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to scream. Frustration builds with each botched play, each missed opportunity.

During a line change, I slam the bench door shut. “We need to tighten up out there!”

Wyatt leans in, his voice low. “Dude, calm down. You're gripping your stick so tight you're gonna snap it in half.”

I look down, realizing he's right. My knuckles are white, the tape on my stick crumpled under the force of my grip. I take a deep breath, trying to heed his advice. But as the period wears on, our play doesn't improve.

The opposing team scores twice in quick succession. The first goal slips through Smitty's five-hole, a soft one he'd usually stop in his sleep. The second comes off a turnover in our own zone, asloppy pass that might as well have been gift-wrapped for their forward.

We head into the locker room after the first period down 2-0.

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