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“Focus!” I snap at myself, trying to shake off the image of Gail’s down-turned face. But it clings to me, a shadow I can’t outrun.
Another rush toward the goal, another slip-up. My teammate’s pass comes hard and fast, but it bounces off my stick like it’s cursed. The puck slides away, just out of reach, and their forward swoops in, seizing the opportunity. One-on-one with Soren, and I can already tell how it’s going to end. The shot fires and lights the lamp behind Soren, a red siren of failure.
“Fuck!” The word explodes from me, steam in the cold arena air.
“Get it together, Davis!” Coach yells again, frustration bending his voice. “You too, Taylor!” He’s fucking last naming us which means trouble.
“Shit, what’s happening to us?” I ask between gasps for air, my voice barely audible.
“Can’t fucking focus,” Soren grunts back, green eyes dark with his own torment. I know he’s thinking about Gail too, about the tangle we’ve all found ourselves in, a knot so tight it’s choking us on the ice.
The final buzzer sounds like a death knell, echoing off the walls, sealing our fate. There’s no miraculous comeback, no last-minute save. Just the bitter taste of defeat, sharp and acrid on my tongue. My muscles burn with exertion and something else—anger, frustration, helplessness.
The grim verdict: Sabertooths 2, Vipers 5.
We glide off the ice, heads bowed, and the locker room looms ahead like a damn confessional. We all know what’s waiting for us there—Coach’s wrath, our own disappointment heavy in the air. But even as I brace for the onslaught, my mind drifts back to Gail, to the mess waiting beyond these walls.
Together we shuffle into the locker room, a graveyard of lost potential. The air is thick with sweat and defeat, each inhale tasting sour, laced with desperation. Hockey pads are discarded without care, hitting the floor with thuds that echo too loudly in the silence that’s settled over us.
“God damn it!” Coach bellows and bursts through the door like a hurricane, his face red, the veins on his neck bulging like they might pop. “You call that playing? My grandmother could’ve scored on you lot!”
“Sorry, Coach,” Soren grumbles, and I catch the edge of shame in his voice. He’s usually a brick wall in front of the net, but today, he was as porous as Swiss cheese.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” Coach roars back, slamming his clipboard down so hard it splinters. “You. Are. Professionals! Act like it!”
I peel off my jersey, the fabric sticking to my skin, slick with the remnants of battle. But it’s not just sweat that clings to me—it’s the weight of everything unsaid, unacknowledged.
It’s Abby’s soft curves, the way her breath hitches when I trace her ink-black hair, parted so perfectly down the middle. It’s the heat of her skin under my fingertips, the sound of her whispered pleas. It’s the pain of knowing she doesn’t exist, not really. Outside of Cupid’s, she’s Gail; a liar. And if she’s not a liar… no, she’s definitely that.
Pregnant…
Fuck!
“Get your heads out of your asses!” Coach bellows again, pacing like a caged animal. His words are a scalding shower, meant to cleanse us of our sins, but all they do is steam up more guilt within the confines of my skull.
“Next game, we come back stronger, or don’t bother showing up at all!” His threat hangs heavy in the air, a challenge, a dare to rise above the mire we’re stuck in. “Understood?” he demands, eyes blazing as they meet each of us.
“Understood,” we echo, a chorus of broken warriors promising to mend our shields, sharpen our swords.
“Dismissed.” Coach’s parting word is a gunshot, signaling the end of the massacre.
The steam from the showers can’t wash away the sting of defeat that clings to my skin like a second jersey. Soren’s beside me, his eyes distant, haunted by missed catches and what-ifs. We’ve seen better days—days when the ice was our playground, not a battleground where we lost more than just points.
“Come on,” Sawyer nudges us both, breaking through the fog of our collective funk. “We’ll grab some condolence beers and—”
I nod, but my heart’s not in it. Beers won’t fix anything.
“Not tonight,” Soren says. “We need to get home.”
Sawyer doesn’t argue with us. Truthfully, he looks almost relieved like the offer was more of a gesture, which I can appreciate. Before he got married, we used to go out together after each game. Win or lose, we’d head to Magnitude or O’Jackie’s. But now he has Lucia, and even though he doesn’t want to leave us behind, that’s exactly what we need him to do tonight.
Outside the locker room, Lucia’s waiting, her red hair a fiery beacon against the white walls. She’s got a worried crease between her brows.
“Hey, Bunny,” Sawyer wraps her up in his arms, and Lucia melts into him for a moment before pulling back with purpose lighting up her green eyes.
“Sy,” she breathes as a way of greeting. For once, their PDA is cut short, and Lucia’s attention wavers between us and the phone she’s clutching in her hand.
“Everything okay?” Soren asks.
