Page 91 of Second Shot

The final buzzer sounds, and the reality hits like a physical blow: we just lost Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals at home. The crowd that waselectric an hour ago files out in disappointed silence, while Savannah’s players celebrate like they’ve already won the Cup.

In the handshake line, Thompson finds Ryan and grips his hand just a little too long.

“Hell of a game, kid,” he says, but there’s something predatory in his smile. “See you Thursday.”

The locker room afterward feels like an Irish wake. Guys sit at their stalls in full gear, processing a loss that stings worse than most. It’s just one game, but losing at home in the Finals carries extra weight. The crowd was ours, the energy was ours, and we still couldn’t get it done.

“Shake it off,” Coach Donnelly says, voice steady. “It’s a seven-game grind, not a one-and-done. We’re built for this. Don’t start second-guessing just because the puck didn’t bounce our way tonight.”

He paces once in front of us, making eye contact. “You played hard. You played smart. Sometimes the bounces suck. That’s hockey. But we stick to our game, we stay out of the box, and we bury our chances, we’ll flip this series on its head. So reset, regroup, and be ready to come out flying next game.”

The team mumbles their agreement, but the mood is definitely grim. Anytime you lose a game, you can’t help but second-guess yourself.Doesn’t matter how many years you’ve played hockey, doubt is always hovering, whispering you’re a fake and a fraud.

As I strip off my gear, I catch Ryan staring at his phone.

“Something wrong?” I ask, untying my skates.

“I got an angry voicemail from my father.” He meets my gaze. “Apparently he’s pissed that I didn’t leave him tickets at will call. Just like I thought, he brought some friends he wanted to impress and he was embarrassed.”

“Fuck him,” I snap. Ryan let me hear the one voicemail he hadn’t deleted from his dad after the whole Freddy debacle. It made me want to puke to hear a father speak to his kid that way. “You don’t owe him tickets. You don’t owe himanything.”

Ryan nods and gives me a grateful smile. “You’re right.”

“I know I am.” I lean toward him. “Delete the message and move on. He doesn’t deserve one more second of your mental energy.”

He hesitates then deletes the message, lifting his gaze to mine as if needing reassurance.

“You did the right thing, baby. He doesn’t get to hurt you anymore, do you understand?”

“Yeah.” He grimaces and sets his phone on the shelf in his stall.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Let’s shower and go home. I’ll make you spaghetti. You like spaghetti, right?”

He smiles, his eyes a little glassy. “I love your spaghetti.”

“Then we’re going to go home, stuff our faces, and get a good night’s sleep. Our next game is in forty-eight hours. Let’s focus on that.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He appears a little happier now.

I force a smile, but truthfully, it bugs me how much Ryan’s father still has the power to hurt him. I don’t understand their dynamic because I have a good relationship with both my parents. I guess if I’d grown up with a father like Ryan’s, maybe I’d find it hard to just cut him off cold. The abuser abusee relationship is a strange and twisted one.

All I can do is support Ryan and run interference when his father tries to hurt him. And the bastard better hope I never run into him in a dark alley.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Gabe

Game 2 is when we finally play like we belong on this stage.

The adjustments Coach made work perfectly. Petrov’s point switching keeps their penalty kill guessing, and Ryan and I mix up our entries exactly like we practiced. But the real turning point comes in the second period when Thompson tries his psychological warfare again.

“Still got those jitters, hotshot?” Thompson chirps at Ryan during a scrum in front of their net.

Ryan claps back, “So far you haven’t done anything worth getting nervous about.”

Thompson smirks. “Come on, kid, you know you don’t belong here with the grownups.”

At 2–2 midway through the second, Ryan’s response to Thompson’s verbal diarrhea is physical and devastating. He strips the puck from Thompson behind their goal, spins around him like he’s a pylon, and feeds me a perfect pass for what becomes the game-winning goal. The crowd explodes as the puck hits thenet, and energy surges back into our bench like we’ve just flipped a switch.