Page 105 of Campus Crush
Coach entered, his expression stern but not defeated. “They’re outworking us right now,” he said bluntly. “But that ends now. I want every single one of you to win your individual battles. Every face-off, every puck along theboards, every race to a loose puck—win it. That’s how we turn this around.”
We took the ice for the third period with renewed determination. The first few minutes were back and forth, neither team gaining an advantage. Then, disaster struck.
MSU’s top line caught us on a bad change. Their winger, a speedy guy named Ramsey, blew past our defense and tucked the puck around Gordy. 3-1 MSU with fifteen minutes left.
The air seemed to go out of our bench. I looked around at my teammates, seeing shoulders slump and heads hang low.
“Hey!” I shouted, standing up. “We’re not done. Not even close.”
Drew nodded, his jaw set. “Let’s go, boys. One shift at a time.”
We pushed hard, throwing everything we had at them. With eight minutes left, Drew scored on a beautiful end-to-end rush, cutting the deficit to one. The crowd came alive again, belief flowing back into the arena.
But time was our enemy now. Every minute that ticked by without the tying goal seemed to drain the energy out of the rink. With two minutes left, Coach pulled Gordy for an extra man on the ice.
We jumped over the boards, six desperate men against five. The puck pinballed around the MSU zone as we fired shot after shot. Reeves stopped everything, some saves more luck than skill.
With thirty seconds left, I won the face-off back to Drew, who fired a hard pass to Liam at the point. Liam wound up for a slap shot, but instead of shooting, he sent a pass right onto my tape at the side of the net. I had a wide-open net, Reeves out of position—and I missed. Thepuck slid harmlessly through the crease and out the other side.
“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming my stick against the ice.
Before we could reset, MSU cleared the puck down the ice. Drew raced after it, but the clock hit zero before he could retrieve it. Game over.
The final horn sounded like a death knell. I stood motionless, hands on my knees, disbelief washing over me. How had I missed that chance? It was the easiest goal I’d ever have, and I’d blown it.
MSU celebrated at center ice while we filed off in silence, the weight of disappointment crushing us. In the locker room, no one spoke. Some guys stared blankly at the floor; others angrily stripped off their gear. I sat frozen in defeat, still fully dressed, replaying that final missed opportunity over and over in my mind.
How could I miss when it was wide fucking open?
I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. We could still make it to playoffs later this season, but now the top spot was going to MSU.
Coach entered, his face somber but not angry. “I know this isn’t how any of you wanted tonight to go,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know how proud I am of this team. We had a bad week. It happens. Next week, we have three more games to win, so we aren’t going to let this week’s losses keep us down. Got it?”
We all nodded, but we were still disappointed.
After Coach left, I finally stood, addressing my teammates. “This one’s on me,” I said, my voice thick. “I had the chance to tie it, and I didn’t come through.”
“Bullshit,” Drew said immediately. “We win as a team, we lose as a team. One play doesn’t define agame or a season.”
Gordy nodded. “Monty’s right, Foster. We all had chances we didn’t capitalize on.”
Their support meant everything, but it didn’t erase the sting of that missed opportunity.
I wasn’t going to let this game break me.
We still had more season left.
And I was still their captain—for the rest of this year, at least.
FIFTY-THREE
The day after the Lumberjacks’ loss to MSU, Gram lost her battle with cancer.
The funeral was held at the small chapel where Gram had attended services every Sunday for as long as I could remember. The wooden pews were filled with neighbors, friends from her quilting circle, and people from the community center where she’d volunteered for years. Outside, the mid-November sky was a clear, brilliant blue—the kind of fall day Gram would have loved.
I sat in the front pew, sandwiched between Foster on one side and Mason on the other. My brother had barely spoken since Gram passed, his grief manifesting in a silence so profound it scared me. He stared straight ahead throughout the service, his face a carefully constructed mask that reminded me too much of how he’d looked after Mom died.
Pastor Mike spoke about Gram’s life—her devotion to family, her tireless community service, her famous huckleberry pies that always won ribbons at the county fair. I triedto focus on his words, but they seemed to float around me, never quite landing. Instead, I found myself fixating on small details—the white lilies on her casket, the slight hum of the old heaters, and the steady pressure of Foster’s hand holding mine. His touch was grounding and I needed it more than I was proud of, but I was thankful I had him.
