Page 101 of Playing to Win

“Then tell me why you want to break up.”

He dropped his spoon and closed his eyes. “I’m not sure I’m recovered enough for this.”

I considered. Push it or go with what else I had to say? “Then there’s something I need to show you.”

His shoulders dropped and he swallowed some coffee. “Okay, I guess.”

I’d brought a tablet, and had it cued up, ready to go. “This was my first Olympics. Gold medal game.”

His lips tightened, but he let me start the video. The American goalie blocked a shot and passed it to one of her D-men. They made a long pass to their center on the blue line, and just like that the Americans had a two on one with Faith in goal. The Americans scored, the place went nuts, and the video ended.

He kept his gaze on the screen. “So, what, blowing the big game runs in my family?”

“No. Let me show you the play before that.”

I had that ready as well. This time, about thirty seconds before the beginning of that clip, I carried the puck into the American zone. It wasn’t a rush, but I was the first one in, my teammates following quickly while the Americans were moving to cover us. I took a shot on goal, the goalie blocked it, and the play continued as before.

Braydon was frowning now. “So, you missed your shot?”

“Obviously. But look.” I ran it back. “Right here, I had the chance to pass it to Randy. She was clear, the pass lane was open, and she had a better angle on goal.”

I waited. Finally, he asked. “So why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to get that goal. It was a tie game, overtime, the medal on the line and I wanted to score the winner. That was my first Olympics. My parents had said it was too difficult to come, so I desperately wanted them to regret that. To prove I was a better player than my brother. Basically, I was selfish. I cost us the game.”

Braydon leaned back. “Like me.”

I reached out my hand, grasped his chin and made him look at me. “Last night you were dropped into the highest-pressure situation a hockey player could possibly face. Stanley Cup on the line, no prep, fluke accident and everything depending on you. That would rattle the most experienced players, and you’re a rookie. You’ve played less than five games on this level.”

He tried to shake his head. “But still?—”

I pressed my thumb on his lips, and he stopped. “There were a lot of things leading to that goal, and there are a lot of your teammates blaming themselves. First, JJ, who tripped onto Petey. That stopped the game, interrupted the team’s momentum, took out your goalie and one of your best defensemen. Which freaked out the team.”

He frowned but kept silent.

“Then, which you may have missed, Cooper made a pass to Crash. A no-look pass that JJ would get every time, but Crash is slower. He didn’t get there. Minnesota did. That resulted in the breakaway that ended in the goal.” I removed my hand from his mouth, reluctantly. “The guy who scored has more playoff goals than anyone else on the ice last night. He’s in his fifth season, at his prime. I wish you had blocked the shot, as does everyone else in this city. But right now JJ and Cooper and Crash and probably Petey are all replaying those few minutes, trying to change what they did. And the rest of your team. All thinking if they’d just done something different, none of those events would have happened.”

I twisted my hands in my lap. Braydon had talked about breaking up and I didn’t know how much of that was the game, or if there was another reason. I was here to fight for us, but if he was struggling with what happened last night, I needed to give him a better perspective on it.

It had taken me months to get over that Olympic game. Braydon would need time as well. But more experienced players had helped Faith and me, and I would help Braydon if I could.

“I’m still the guy who went down too early.”

“But you’re more than that.”

He didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either. He drank more coffee, so I continued with the other thing I wanted him to see.

“Also, fucking Frank Devereaux. If Petey wasn’t his client, I’d wonder if he was trying to sabotage the game for Minnesota. Hell of a time to come and try to make nice with you and your parents.” I’d been wanting to strangle Frank since he showed up in the doorway of the restaurant.

Braydon set down his coffee. “He gave me money for my project.”

“Still an asshole. Sorry, that’s your relative.”

Finally, a smile, though small. “That’s also the truth. You’re right. Yesterday was a lot. That’s why I sent you that text. About breaking up.”

“Not veal op.”

He stared at his coffee. “I just—have all these rules set up so that hockey works. And suddenly my mind wasn’t focused. I wasn’t all there last night, on the ice, the way I should have been.”

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