Page 6 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

With that, he’s gone, moving on to someone else to give cold advice to; it won’t make us feel better or add goals to the scoreboard.

Sure, our defense didn’t exactly show up tonight, but I’m the goalie.

The last line of defense.

The one who’s supposed to clean up everyone else’s messes.

And I didn’t.

I sit for several more moments, letting Coach’s words settle.

Thinkless. Reactmore.

Easier said than done, yeah? Out on the ice, there’s no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. But tonight, all I could do was think—and every thought led to another mistake.

I put my mask into my bag, the action mechanical. Automatic.

I’ve packed my shit thousands of times.

Around me, the guys move, talking in low tones that sound distant—I feel like I’m watching through a fogged-up window.

The locker room remains weighed down by our failure and unmet expectations.

“Gee,” Dominic Gagnon calls my nickname from across the room, his toothless grin annoyingly wide for a dude who lost his third game in a row. “You coming to Blanco?”

Of course Dom is in a good mood.

He always is, win or lose. Some people are built differently and not necessarily in a good way—not him though. Life of the party, shoulder to lean on, hype beast all the way.

And normally, I’m always down for a good time.

Blanco’s is a chic steakhouse with a dark, moody bar. The owner keeps it closed for the team after home games so it doesn’t get overrun by fans looking for autographs or selfies. The food is great, the drinks are better, and the atmosphere is perfect for blowing off steam without being watched like a zoo exhibit.

Tonight? The last thing I need is to get drunk and stew in my own mediocrity.

I sucked.

“Nah. No thanks,” I mutter, standing up and slinging my massive bag over my shoulder. The weight of it feels good—a reminder I still exist in the real world, even if I’m walking out of it with my tail between my legs. “Not tonight.”

Dom frowns. “Aw, come on. You’re not gonna leave me stuckwith LeBlanc and Petrov, are you? Those two can’t hold a conversation to save their lives.”

I roll my eyes, halfway to the door. “Sounds like ayouproblem.”

His laughter follows me out, light and easy in a way that makes me want to turn around and punch him square in his stupid, gap-toothed grin.

I’m not in the mood for his good mood.

The cold air hits me as soon as I step outside, biting at my skin and cutting through the lingering haze of sweat and frustration. The parking lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching long under the flickering overhead lights.

My car sits alone near the far end, a beacon of solitude I can’t decide if I’m grateful for or resentful of. I toss my bag into the trunk with more force than necessary, the satisfying thud echoing in the still night air.

Blanco’s would be easy. A couple of drinks, some laughs, and I could’ve pretended, for a little while, I’m not the reason we’re on a losing streak. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Pretending only gets you so far.

I climb into the driver’s seat and sit there for a moment, staring at the dashboard. The silence feels heavier out here, away from the team, the locker room, the noise.

For a split second, I consider texting someone—anyone—to avoid going home and being alone with my negative thoughts. But I shake my head, shoving the idea aside.

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