Page 5 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

He’s mocking me.

“Dude!” Nova absolutely loses it, clutching her stomach as she laughs. “Kyle’s got jokes!”

I roll my eyes, but can’t stop the smile from widening on my face. “You two are the worst.”

Kyle winks. “Cheers to that.”

2

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We didn’t lose the game. We ran out of time…

The locker room is a mess—towels draped over benches, water bottles knocked on their sides, and the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing like they’re mocking us. The air is heavy, thick with sweat and disappointment, clinging to everything like a second skin. Dirty socks are strewn across the floor, mingling with drenched, musty pads that have been thrown aside in frustration.

It smells like defeat.

Mine.

Ours.

A unique, sour stench that’s somehow worse than the usual hockey funk. Defeat has a scent all its own, one that seeps into your pores and lingers long enough to remind you how badly you’ve failed.

I sit on the bench, staring at the scuffed tile floor as if it holds the answers I’m looking for. It doesn’t. My mask dangles from my hand, the plastic still damp, still sticky, like it’s absorbed every bad decision I made out there tonight.

The chatter is subdued, voices muffled by exhaustion and bruised egos.

No one wants to talk about it, but everyone’s thinking the same thing: we blew it.

Or worse—they’re thinkingIblew it.

You let them down, Montagalo. Again.

What are they paying you for?

“Montagalo,” Coach’s gruff voice snaps through the haze, and I look up instinctively, my heart sinking further at the sight of his expression.

Stern.

Tired.

Disappointed.

“You good?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a subtle demand for an explanation—one I don’t have. Not yet, my brain is too tired to come up with excuses. Too tired to explain why I bit it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, voice sounding hollow. “Sitting here thinking.”

I sound like a pussy. A wuss.

Coach narrows his eyes; for a second, I think he might start screaming in my face—the way he was screaming during the game. Instead, he shakes his head.

Frustrated.

He wants better from me. Hell,Iwant better from me.

No one is more disappointed in my performance than I am.

“Think less,” he demands shrewdly. “React more.”

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