Page 23 of The Perfect Snipe

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The crowd erupts.

Perfect. Fucking. Snipe.

Thank fuck.

Wyatt bear hugs me, patting my helmet. “Fucking beautiful, Cap!”

The team’s energy shifts, a spark of hope igniting. Guys are standing, banging their sticks against the boards. We’re only down by one. We still have a chance.

As we skate back to the bench, Coach nods approvingly. “That's what I'm talking about. Let's keep this momentum going!”

But as the minutes tick by, that taste turns bitter. Every shot we take seems to find the goalie's glove or pad. Morrow hits the post. Smirnov fans on an open net. No matter how hard we put up a fight, the goddamn puck refuses to go into the net again.

With ten seconds left, the puck comes to me at the point. This is it. Our last chance. I wind up, everything I have left channeled into this one shot.

The puck leaves my stick like a rocket. It weaves through a sea of bodies. The goalie's screened.

CLANG!

The puck hits the crossbar. The sound reverberates through the arena like a death knell for our hopes.

The horn blares and it’s over.

The score ends 2-1. Another loss. Another nail in the coffin of our fading playoff hopes.

I slam my stick against the ice, the crack of it splitting a fitting punctuation to another disappointing night.

We file down the tunnel, the usual post-game chatter conspicuously absent. The only sounds are the soft thuds of our skates on the rubber mats and the occasional frustrated sigh.

In the locker room, I slump onto the bench in front of my stall, still in full gear. My muscles ache, a dull throb that matches the pounding in my head. Around me, guys start peeling off their sweaty jerseys and pads, tossing them into overflowing laundry bins.

Morrow's skates clatter to the floor as he yanks them off. Wyatt methodically unwinds the tape from his socks. The familiar post-game routines play out in slow motion, as if we're all moving through molasses.

I close my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms against them until I see stars, the promise I made to my late wife flittering around the edges of my consciousness, taunting me with the likelihood that I'll fail her in this too, just as I failed to save her from her disease.

Some protector, some provider I turned out to be.

“Hey, Cap.” Smitty's voice breaks through my spiral. I look up to see him standing there, still in his goalie pads. “We've still got a shot.”

He’s right.

There’s still games left to play, minutes left on the clock of this season and my career. I won’t stop. I won’t give up. Not while there's still breath in my body and strength in my legs to chase down every last puck, to fight for every last inch of ice.

I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.

Chapter 10

Cat

I sink into the plush couch, tucking my feet under me. The remote clicks as I flip through channels, finally landing on the post-game wrap-up. The commentators' voices drone on about missed opportunities and defensive lapses.

Fuck.

Another loss for the Minotaurs. I know how bad Wyatt wants to make the playoffs and I’m sure Leo does too. While I don’t understand the whole points system just yet, I do know a loss doesn’t help matters.

My fingers curl around the stem of my wine glass, bringing it to my lips. The rich cabernet slides down my throat as I watch the highlights from the game. Or lowlights, really, given the outcome.

Leo appears on screen, his powerful form cutting through defenders like a hot knife through butter. The puck leaves his stick in a blur, finding its way to the back of the net. Even the commentators can't hide their admiration.

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