Page 72 of Second Shot

But there’s a split second, just a heartbeat, where he hesitates, like he’s second-guessing whether I’ll actually get him the puck. The hesitation is tiny, barely noticeable, but it’s enough for their defenseman to close the gap and break up the play.

“Fuck,” Ryan mutters, loud enough for me to hear as we skate back to regroup.

“Next one,” I call out automatically.

He doesn’t respond. It’s like I didn’t even speak.

The first period ends scoreless, which isn’t unusual for a playoff-race game, but I can see the frustration building on our bench. We had chances, good chances, but nothing’s clicking the way it should.

“What’s going on out there?” Foster asks as we file into the locker room between periods. “You guys look... off.”

“We’re fine,” Ryan says curtly, not looking at anyone as he towels sweat from his face.

But we’re not fine. We’re the opposite of fine.

The second period starts to unravel quickly. Great Lakes scores first on a power play after I’m a half-second late rotating over to cover Ryan’s side. We usually communicate well enough to switch off seamlessly in the defensive zone, but this time I hesitate, and their winger finds just enough space to bury the puck.

“My fault,” I call as we line up for the face-off after their goal, trying to take responsibility for the breakdown.

Ryan’s response is to skate to his position without acknowledging I spoke.

Ten minutes later, they score again. This time it’s Ryan’s man who gets free in front of the net, but only because I hesitate for a split second on the weak side and lose track of the backdoor play. Another small miscommunication that would normally be no big deal.

But nothing is normal anymore.

“Time out.” Coach Donnelly’s voice booms across the ice, and we skate toward the bench with our heads down.

“What the hell is going on out there?” he demands, as soon as Ryan and I reach the boards. “You two look like you’ve never played together before.”

“Just need to execute better,” Ryan says, his voice tight.

“Execute better?” Coach’s eyes narrow. “Son, you and Jacobs have been money all season. Tonight you look like you’re playing on different teams.”

The truth hangs in the air between us, unspoken but obvious to everyone within earshot. We are playing on different teams now. Ryan’s on the team that thinks I betrayed him, and I’m on the team that’s not allowed to defend itself.

We manage to tie it up in the third period, Petrov scoring on a beautiful individual effort that has nothing to do with Ryan or me, but the damage is already done. Our line, which has been the heart of this team’s offense all season, is effectively neutered.

When overtime starts, Coach puts us out for the first shift. It’s 3-on-3, still regular season, but thirty seconds in, when Ryan has a chance to pass to me on a two-on-one and instead forces a shot through traffic, I know we’re finished.

Great Lakes scores two minutes into overtime on a rush that never should’ve been dangerous. Ryan and I both chase the puck carrier as he cuts into the right-side lane, my lane,and neither of us calls the switch. We double up, reacting instead of thinking, and leave the slot wide open. Their center, Sharrod, a third-liner who’s been buzzing all night, reads the gap and crashes through. The puck hits his stick clean and he buries it, no hesitation. It’s not even a flashy goal. Just the devastating consequence of Ryan and I not trusting each other.

I stare at the red light behind Niko’s net, stunned. Not just by the goal, but by how amateurish Ryan and I looked. Like we’re a couple of rookies who’ve never played together. It’s embarrassing.

We didn’t just lose in overtime. We proved everyone right. We’re broken.

In the locker room afterward, the silence is deafening. Guys sit at their stalls, some still in full gear, processing a loss that feels more devastating than the score would suggest. We’re still in playoff position, still in control of our own destiny, but tonight felt like something more important slipped away.

Maybe my pride?

“Tough bounce,” Kincaid says quietly, the first words anyone has spoken since we sat down.

“Wasn’t a bounce,” Marlowe replies grimly. “Was a complete breakdown.”

I know he’s not just talking about the final play.

Ryan’s three stalls away, already half-undressed, his movements sharp and angry. When he stands to head toward the showers, I try to head him off.

“Ryan,” I call, keeping my voice low. “We need to talk.”

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