Page 105 of On Ice

We set up in their zone, working the puck around the perimeter. I find Mills with a cross-seam pass, and he immediately returns it to me as the defense shifts. I have a lane, I shoot—

Blocked. The puck kicks out to center, right onto Peters’ stick.

He’s off to the races, just me chasing. My legs are lead, lungs burning as I try to close the gap. He cuts across the crease, gets Noah to commit, then tucks it in on his forehand.

2-0 Strikers, shorthanded, with five seconds left in the period.

The Toronto crowd is in a frenzy. Peters celebrates by cupping his hand to his ear, drinking in their cheers. I want to break my stick over his head but instead skate slowly to our bench, feeling the weight of the C on my chest like an anchor.

“It’s not over,” I say in the locker room, trying to inject some belief. “We get one early, turn the momentum, and we’re right back in it.”

Some guys nod. Others stare blankly. We’ve been outplayed and we know it.

Coach also looks demoralized and keeps his speech simple. “Win your battles. Support each other. One shift at a time.”

Third period starts, and we’re desperate now. I take longer shifts, pushing through the burning in my legs. Eight minutes in, finally a breakthrough, Rodriguez forces a turnover behind their net, finds Jackson in the slot, who wires it top corner. The Toronto crowd goes silent for the first time all night.

“Let’s fucking go,” I shout as I fist bump Mills and skate back to the bench. “That’s one. Things are turning around.”

The energy changes. We’re hungrier, winning more puck battles. With seven minutes left, we get another power play when their defenseman Jensen high-sticks Miller.

“Same setup as before,” Coach says. “But get more traffic in front.”

We set up, working the puck with more urgency now. Mills finds me at the point, I fake a shot, then slide it to Rodriguez at the side of the net. He has Temesvári leaning the wrong way, an open net—

The puck rolls off his blade, sliding harmlessly through the crease.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Shit,”Rodriguez growls, slamming his stick on the ice. The chance evaporates as Toronto clears the zone.

With three minutes left, Coach pulls Jackson for an extra attacker. We’re throwing everything at them, shots from bad angles, desperate passes into traffic. I block a clearing attempt, keeping the puck in their zone, and fire a quick shot through a screen.

Temesvári doesn’t see it, but it hits a body in front and deflects wide.

The clock ticks down. Thirty seconds, then twenty. Toronto chips the puck out of their zone. Dougherty races to it, fires it the length of the ice.

Empty net goal. 3-1 Strikers.

The buzzer sounds like a funeral toll. I’m in shock. Gutted. My guys look pissed and wrecked. I want to throw a fucking tantrum to end all tantrums. We tried so fucking hard but wejust couldn’t get there. My jersey is soaked through with sweat, sticking to my back as I line up for the obligatory handshakes. My hand feels heavy as I raise it to meet each Toronto player.

“Good game, Captain,” Peters says when we shake. His expression is neutral, respectful. “You guys are better than your record.”

Ouch.

My throat is tight as I say hoarsely, “Thanks. Good game.” I force myself to do and say the right thing because my team is watching me to see how I handle the loss. I can’t give into my desire to bitch and moan. We lost. Period. They outplayed us.

The visitors’ locker room at Scotiabank Arena is eerily quiet as we undress. The only sounds are equipment being dropped into bags, the occasional sigh or muttered curse. The air is thick with disappointment and the sour smell of wet gear.

“It’s one game,” Coach Daniels says finally, breaking the silence. “Clean up, get on the bus, and we’ll regroup tomorrow.”

He’s right, but the problem is one game can end things for a team in our position. We’re not out yet, but if we lose again, our chances of being in the playoffs are probably over. We don’t have any buffer now and that’s terrifying.

I sit in my stall long after most of the guys have hit the showers. When I finally drag myself under the water, I let the heated water pound against my aching muscles. That game was vicious. It’s one thing to leave everything on the ice and come out with a win, but getting your ass handed to you like that? The pain doesn’t even feel worth it.

As I dress, I check the standings on my phone. We’re still clinging to the final playoff spot, but the cushion is gone. The next game becomes that much more important.

Outside, the Toronto night is cold, a biting wind whipping between the downtown towers. The team bus idles by the curb, exhaust rising in the frigid air. I board last, nodding to the driver, then sink into an empty seat near the back.

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