Page 79 of My Pucked Up Enemy

I’m all in too.

Chapter twenty-two

Alex

I’mnotayeller.

I don’t throw sticks. I don’t punch locker doors. I don’t blame my defense, or the refs, or the puck being cursed.

But tonight?

Tonight, I want to rip my mask in half.

"Chadwick, shake it off," Parker says as he walks past me, patting my back. But his voice is tight, like he’s trying not to say what he’s really thinking.

I stare at my skates and feel the knot in my gut turn tighter. Third period, six minutes left, tie game. I let in a muffin from the blue line, a weak shot I should’ve swallowed in my sleep. I didn’t see it. I didn’t track it. I froze. It was just for a second, but that was enough.

Game over.

The locker room’s buzzing behind me with the usual post-loss chorus. James is cracking jokes, trying to ease the sting. Parker's already halfway through a protein shake. Coach did the post-game talk, short and clipped.We need more focus in the final frame. Execution matters.

I’m the reason we lost.

And every guy in here knows it.

"You okay?" James asks, crouching next to me.

"Living the dream."

He squints. "That’s your grumpy voice."

"It’s my leave-me-alone-before-I-snap voice."

"Cool, cool," he says, nodding like he’s taking notes. "So… are you gonna spiral in silence, or should I get you a bag of mini marshmallows and a sappy playlist?"

I look up at him. "Do you ever shut up?"

He grins. "Nope. You’re welcome."

I shake my head, but I’m grateful for the chirp. Kind of.

Connor walks by a second later and knuckles my shoulder. "You didn’t lose that game alone, man. Defense was slow on the rebound, and we couldn’t buy a faceoff in the third. That’s not on you."

I grunt, not ready to be let off the hook.

"Seriously," he continues, sitting next to me on the bench. "We win and lose as a team. And last I checked, you’ve saved our asses more times than I can count this season. You're allowed a human moment."

"Yeah, well," I mutter, "doesn’t feel very human. Feels like I’m the leak in the damn dam."

Connor shrugs. "Then we patch it. Together. That’s what teams do. We have each other's backs."

Ethan chimes in from across the room, "Look how far we’ve come, man. Last year, we would've been snapping sticks and ghosting each other for a week. Now? We show up, we own it, and we build back. That’s what real teams do."

He means it. Which only makes me feel worse. But also... a little lighter.

By the time I hit the showers, my brain’s already replaying the shot over and over. I see the puck fluttering. I see my glove too slow. I see the net ripple behind me.

One goal. One fracture.

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