Page 19 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
I react.
My body moves on instinct as I drop, extending my glove. The puck slams into the leather, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through my shoulder. A grunt escapes me as I hit the ice, pain flaring white-hot, but I hold on.
The crowd erupts. My teammates pound their sticks on the boards. I breathe through the pain and push myself up. Not done yet.
We regain control. This time, Jackson takes the shot. It’s a clean, powerful slap shot from just outside the crease. For a second, I think it’s in - but their goalie snags it at the last second. The collective groan from the fans fills the rink.
And then, the worst happens.
Their center wins the next faceoff, sending the puck straight to their winger. He skates up, winds back, and fires.
The shot deflects - off someone’s skate.
The puck changes direction mid-air, heading straight for the top corner. I lunge - too late. It sails past my glove, clipping the bar before hitting the net.
Whistle. Game over.
For a second, the rink is dead silent. Then, their fans explode in cheers. Our side groans. The ref hesitates, talking with the officials. Our guys are shouting, pointing at the replay on the big screen.
The puck hit someone’s skate. Was it a kicking motion?
The ref signals a good goal.
I slam my stick against the ice, frustration boiling in my veins. The guys argue, but the call stands. Just like that, we lose.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. My shoulder throbs. Tomas skates up, claps a hand on my helmet.
“Hell of a game, man.”
I nod, jaw tight. But it does not feel like it.
We lost.
The guys shuffle into the locker room, still high on adrenaline but carrying the weight of the loss. Jackson drops onto the bench with a groan, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
“That was brutal,” he mutters.
“Yeah, but we played hard,” Liam says, unstrapping his pads. “It wasn’t a bad game.”
Lucas exhales, tossing his gloves into his locker. “Still sucks, though.”
There’s a general murmur of agreement. No one likes losing, but we’re not dragging our heads, either. It was a tight game.
Coach strides in a moment later, clapping his hands together. “All right, listen up.” His gaze sweeps over us. “That was a solid effort. You held your ground, played tough. That’s the kind of game I want to see - tight, competitive, relentless. I know that loss stings, but you played your asses off tonight. I saw heart.I saw teamwork. That’s what matters. The scoreboard doesn’t always reflect the fight you put in.”
A few nods. A few sighs.
Coach looks directly at me. “Blake, get that shoulder checked. Don’t need you making it worse.”
I nod, already feeling the stiffness setting in. The adrenaline is wearing off, and pain is creeping in.
“Rest up, all of you,” Coach says. “We’ll go over tapes tomorrow. Good effort, boys.”
One by one, the guys slap each other’s backs, exchanging a mix of encouragement and self-deprecating jokes as we head out. I shower quickly, throw on a hoodie, and make my way to the nurse’s office.
The fluorescent lights hum above me as the team medic examines my shoulder. I grit my teeth when he presses against it.
“Yeah, that’s dislocated,” he says. “We’ll need to get your arm in a sling.”
