Page 54 of Cold Comeback
Norfolk scored thirty-seven seconds into the power play. A simple give-and-go that I would have broken up if I'd been on the ice instead of sitting in the box, watching my blunder turn into a goal against us.
The third period was when everything truly fell apart.
Norfolk had taken a 2-1 lead early in the period, and desperation was setting in on our bench. Coach rolled the lines shorter, giving the top guys more ice time. I should have been the steadying presence, the veteran leader who calmed everyone down and organized the comeback.
Instead, I fought a war inside my head.
With six minutes left, we finally tied it. Linc scored off a scramble in front, and the crowd erupted. I thought we might pull it together. Maybe my personal crisis wouldn't completely derail the team.
Then, with three minutes remaining, Thatcher made a play that should have been highlight-reel material.
He stripped the puck from their defenseman at their blue line, a perfectly timed poke check that left two Norfolk players chasing ghosts. He drew the remaining defenseman and their center toward him, creating space in the high slot—where I should have been. I'd been there a hundred times before in my career.
He looked for me, his head turning slightly as he protected the puck with his body. I saw the pass developing before he made it, could visualize the puck hitting my tape, and saw myself one-timing it past their goalie for the game-winner.
Instead of following my instincts and driving hard to the net, I pulled up. Just for a second. Long enough to think about what it meant to be there for him, to trust him, and to let myself be part of something I was too scared to name.
In hockey, a second is everything. Their goalie read the hesitation and cheated toward my position. When Thatcher's pass finally came—perfectly weighted, exactly where it should have been—the shooting lane had closed.
The puck skipped off my stick and wide of the net. The crowd's anticipation died in groans of frustration.
With ninety-seven seconds left in a tied game, Norfolk scored on a simple two-on-one that developed because I was still in their zone, having balked again.
Final score: Norfolk 3, Richmond 2.
Thatcher skated past me on his way to the handshake line. He didn't say anything, but the look he gave me said everything. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just sad, like he was watching someone he cared about disappear.
The locker room afterward was like a wake.
Coach's speech was mercifully brief. "Mental mistakes cost us tonight. We're better than this, but being better means playing better. Figure it out."
He didn't look at me when he said it, but everyone else did—quick glances, then eyes on something else. The weight of their disappointment settled on my shoulders like a lead blanket.
One by one, they filed out. No post-game discussions. No team bonding. No staying late to rehash plays or talk through what went wrong.
Knox lingered by the door, clearly wanting to say something. Then, Thatcher appeared beside him, and Knox shook his head slightly. They left together.
I sat alone in the empty locker room, staring at my hands.
You're losing it, Sawyer. You're losing everything.
Twenty minutes later, I was still sitting there when Wren appeared in the doorway.
"Team's gone," she said, settling onto the bench across from me. "Want to tell me what that was?"
"Bad game. Happens."
"Bullshit." Her voice was sharp, cutting. "That wasn't a bad game. That was a captain having a nervous breakdown in slow motion while nineteen other guys tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with their leader."
I looked up, ready to defend myself, but the expression on her face stopped me cold.
"I don't know what's eating you," she continued, "but it's contagious and it's spreading to the whole team. They're walking on eggshells around you. During warm-ups, Linc asked me if you were sick. Pluto wanted to know if there was family trouble. Even Knox—Knox—pulled me aside to ask if the organization was planning changes."
Each word was a hit I couldn't block. "I'm handling it."
"You're not handling anything. You're a ghost, Gideon. A captain's job isn't to be perfect. It's to be present. Right now, you're neither."
The truth of it hit like a punch to the solar plexus. My identity was in trouble. The team that trusted me to lead them was watching me fall apart, and I was too caught up in my own fear to see the damage I was causing.
