Page 1 of Suck My Puck

Chapter 1

Braden

The puck sails past my head, sinking into the back of the net.

That familiar dread slices through me. I mutter a curse as I reposition my glove and try to refocus.

It was just one goal. This is practice. It doesn’t count.

Except I know it does.

I look over at Coach Porter, who’s standing a dozen feet away. He’s the head coach of the Denver Bashers, the professional hockey team I play for. Next to him is Coach Sadler, the team’s goalie coach. They’re staring at me, studying me. Undoubtedly noticing how off my game I’ve been this entire practice.

This morning we’re doing stick and puck, and it’s kicking my ass. I don’t normally let in this many goals, even during practice. But my performance has been dog shit today. I was a mess even before I got here.

I huff out a breath when I think about how I overslept this morning. I was in such a rush to make it to practice on time that I forgot my phone. I left it on my bathroom counter with the music blasting. That’s always been mynormal pump-up routine before practice, playing music while getting ready. But I was so out of it that by the time I realized I had forgotten my phone, I was halfway to the arena, and it was too late to turn around and get it.

My neighbors probably hate me right now.

God, I hate feeling so off. I hate playing like shit.

But I’ve been like this ever since I lost the playoffs for my team last season.

That dread inside me expands, tightening around my lungs and seeping all the way down my chest. It settles in the pit of my gut, burning like gasoline.

I think back to the moment I fucked it all up. We were tied in the series with Boston. We had three wins, and so did they. It was game seven, and we were tied, so we went into overtime. We were minutes away from making it to the final round of the Stanley Cup playoffs.

I was laser-focused. I tracked that puck as it flew across the ice, like a cat tracking a mouse. Never once did I let it out of my sight.

And when Boston’s best player took possession and headed for me, I was ready.

At least, I thought I was.

But then he faked me out. He pulled his stick back like he was going to shoot to the right side of the net, and I dove. A split-second later, the puck flew past my left shoulder into the net. And it was all over.

We lost. Because of me.

It’s been months since it happened, but I still can’t stop thinking about it, still can’t stop feeling like the biggest failure on the fucking planet.

My teammates were cool about it. Not one of them blamed me for the loss. Even the coaching staff didn’t come down on me forfucking it up.

They didn’t have to, though. Because the second I let that puck into my net, I’ve been silently blaming myself.

I was the last line of defense when everything was on the line. And I fucking blew it. I’m the one that let my team down. I’m the reason we lost out on our chance at the Cup.

My dad’s voice echoes in my mind.

You’re not good enough. Not even close.

My throat aches with that familiar pain I’ve felt almost my entire life.

Most hockey dads would be thrilled that their kid made it to the pros. Not my dad.

I think about how I was drafted in the last round of the NHL when I was eighteen. I was pick number two hundred. It wasn’t an impressive showing. I know it wasn’t. There were plenty of guys who were better than me, who were drafted earlier than I was, who earned more lucrative contracts.

But still. I had made it to the pros. Other guys around me who got drafted that same round, their families were excited and proud. I remember how they hugged and cheered as their names were announced. Not my dad. He didn’t even look at me, didn’t even stand up from his seat to shake my hand or hug me when my name was announced.

Because it wasn’t good enough for him. I was never good enough for him. I don’t think I ever will be.

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