28. Tyler

CHAPTER 28

TYLER

The arena lights glare down on the ice as I take my position between the pipes, my skates digging in and head bowed for a moment of focus before the puck drops. The din of the opposing team's crowd washes over me in waves, adding to the weight of expectation hanging heavy in the air.

This is it—the final key game before playoffs.

The Blizzards need this win to progress or our whole season goes down the drain.

I block out the noise and zero in on the ice as the ref blows the starting whistle. The puck skitters back and forth, blades flashing. Axel snags it, weaving between defenders with that unreal agility of his. He passes to Griff, who winds up for a slapshot. I hold my breath but the goalie snags it from the air.

Close one .

The puck bounces back into play and the battle continues.

Minutes tick by and the score stays stubbornly tied. My nerves crank tighter with each rush at the goal. I lunge left and right, batting away shots, but one almost sneaks by, pinging off the goalpost.

Too close. Can't let them score .

The pressure mounts and doubt creeps in, the tension coiling in my gut. I can practically hear my brother Steven's voice in my head, mocking me, telling me I'm going to choke like always.

DJ shouts encouragement from down the ice as if he can hear my thoughts. "Keep it up, Ty! We've got this!"

I meet his eyes briefly, drawing strength from his unflinching confidence in me and the team. I shake off the negative thoughts, my grip tightening on my stick. We've worked too damn hard to let it all slip away now.

But I can feel the doubts edging their way back in as the puck comes down the ice towards me.

I grit my teeth and brace myself as the puck hurtles towards me, my glove hand shooting out to snatch it from the air. Not this time .

The rubber disc slams into my palm with a satisfying thwack.

"Nice save, Ty!" DJ shouts, flashing me a grin. I nod back, trying to stay focused. Can't let my mind wander, not even for a second.

The first intermission can't come soon enough.

The locker room is all nervous energy, guys pacing and muttering as Coach lays into us about playing tighter defense. I sit in my stall, head hanging, replaying that close call over and over.

DJ plops down next to me, our shoulders brushing. His warmth seeps through my pads.

"You're killing it out there, Ty," he murmurs, bumping his knee against mine. "Don't let the pressure mess with your head. Trust your instincts."

I blow out a breath, trying to absorb his easy confidence. "Easier said than done. If I mess this up..."

He grabs my shoulder, forcing me to meet his gaze, his brown eyes unusually warm. "You won't."

His faith wraps around me like armor and I sit up straighter, some of the tension draining away. "Thanks, man. I needed that."

"Anytime." His hand lingers a beat longer than necessary before he stands. "Now let's get back out there and kick some ass."

The second period is a blur of close calls and near misses. We're scrambling, the other team smelling blood in the water. They pepper me with shots but I hold the line, DJ's words ringing in my ears.

Trust my instincts. Be the rock .

The clock winds down toward the second intermission and we're locked in a 1-1 stalemate. Exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket. My reactions slow a fraction.

And that's all it takes.

The forward winds up and fires a rocket from the point. I lunge...but I'm a heartbeat too late.

PING! The puck ricochets off the post and in, the goal light flashing red. Failure .

Devastated, I crumple to my knees as the crowd erupts in cheers, their triumphant roars salt in the wound.

Skating to the bench for the second intermission, I can't meet my teammates' eyes. The air crackles with barely contained anger and disappointment. They trusted me...and I blew it.

Slumping onto the bench, I stare at the floor, shame burning my face. Someone taps my pads.

"Hey. Chin up, kid," DJ says softly. "It's just one goal. We'll get it back."

I swallow hard and nod, but the lump in my throat remains. All I want to do is hide from the crushing weight of my failure. But I can't. I'm the goalie—there's nowhere to run. I have to suck it up, stuff down the hot sting of tears, and find a way to finish this game.

The final buzzer sounds and the Blizzards squeak out a 5-4 victory, no thanks to my lackluster performance in goal tonight. I skate off the ice with my head hung low, feeling the disappointment like a lead weight in my stomach.

As I make my way to the locker room, I spot a familiar face in the hallway.

Steven.

What the hell is he doing here? He never comes to my games . I plaster on a fake smile as we hug.

"Hey bro, surprised to see you here," I say, trying to sound upbeat.

"Had to see my little brother starting in goal for myself," he says, giving me an assessing look. I've been starting for most of the season but of course Steven chose tonight to swing by and judge me, a game where everything was on the line. "Let's grab some food and catch up."

We end up at a nearby sports bar, burgers and beers in front of us. I can already tell this isn't going to be a pleasant brotherly chat by the critical look in Steven's eyes.

"So how's it going, moving into the big leagues?" he asks, taking a swig of his IPA.

I shrug. "It's a big adjustment, a lot of pressure. But I'm working my ass off."

Steven snorts in amusement. "You might want to step it up. You looked like a fucking rookie flailing around out there. At this rate, you'll be warming the bench again in no time."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stare down at my plate, appetite gone. "I let in a couple bad goals, I know. I'm still adapting to?—"

"Save the excuses," Steven cuts me off. "Words aren't worth shit in hockey. You either perform or you're out. And tonight, you sure as hell didn't perform."

I feel my face flushing with embarrassment and frustration. Getting reamed out by Coach is one thing, but by my own brother? The brother I've always looked up to, wanted to emulate?

"If you're gonna make it in the pros, you need to be lights out, every single night," Steven continues. "No room for fuck-ups or off games. Goalies are the backbone of any team. You lose your edge, you're disposable."

I sit in miserable silence, each word from him chipping away at my already shaky confidence. He's only saying what I've been thinking myself.

That I don't have what it takes.

That I'll never live up to his legacy.

Steven was a first round recruit straight out of college and did five years in Denver before an injury cut his career short. He's ten years older than me, which made him old enough to idolize, and also far enough in age that we were never close.

He used to come criticize my high school hockey games when he was a pro. I've spent every year since then chasing his approval, eager to show him that I can be just as good of a player as he was.

"Guess I should be grateful I even made it this far," I mutter, more to myself than him.

"Damn right you should. It takes a hell of a lot more than just talent."

I know he's right, but I resent the way he says it—like I'm the runt of the litter, perpetually destined to fall short. The sting of inadequacy settles in my chest as I force down the rest of my burger.

This night can't end soon enough. I stare down into my beer, looking for answers I know I won't find.

All I want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and forget this whole humiliating day.

I trudge down the dimly lit hallway of my apartment building, my muscles aching, shoulders slumped under the weight of defeat. The only sound is the soft scuff of my shoes against the worn carpet. As I round the corner, I stop short.

DJ and Sydney stand outside my door like two gorgeous sentinels, mirrored concern on their faces.

"Hey, Ty," Sydney says softly, reaching out to touch my arm. "Are you okay?"

I force a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

DJ frowns, unconvinced. "Bro, I saw your face after those goals went in. You're beating yourself up, aren't you?"

"Nah, it's all good," I lie, avoiding his probing gaze.

Sydney pulls me into a hug, enveloping me in her jasmine scent.

"It's not your fault, Tyler," she says. "The whole team was off tonight."

"She's right," DJ agrees, wrapping his tattooed arms around us both. "You're an amazing goalie. A few bad goals doesn't change that."

I want to believe them, but the tight knot in my chest won't unclench. The phantom red goal lights flash behind my eyes.

"I don't know," I mutter. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for this."

"Hey!" DJ grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet his eyes. "That's bullshit and you know it. You're Tyler fucking Simmonds. You're the wall, remember?"

I manage a weak chuckle at our old inside joke. "Some wall I am, letting pucks through like a sieve."

"Stop that," Sydney chides gently. "You're human, Ty. You're allowed to have off nights." She cups my cheek, her brown eyes luminous with affection.

I sigh, leaning into her touch despite myself. My body craves their comfort, even as my mind rebels against it.

"I just feel like I let everyone down, you know? The team, the coaches, the fans..." I swallow hard. "You guys."

"You could never let us down," DJ says fiercely. He presses a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering.

Sydney nods, rising on tiptoe to brush her mouth against mine. "We're here for you, always. You're stuck with us, hotshot. Now…are you going to let us into your place or what?"

"Much as this hallway has its charms," DJ quips, "it could sure use a bunch more soft furniture for what I have in mind…"

A real smile tugs at my lips, even as exhaustion pulls at my eyelids. "Thanks, guys. I totally would invite you in…next time. I think I just need to crash, try to sleep this off."

They exchange a worried glance but don't push any further, each giving me one last squeeze before stepping back.

"Call us if you need anything, okay?" Sydney says. "Even if it's just to talk."

"Or not talk, if you know what I mean," DJ adds with a wink.

I snort. "I'll keep that in mind. Night, guys."

I close the door behind me with a heavy click. The apartment seems cavernous, empty. I strip off my suit, not bothering with the lights, and fall into bed.

But sleep eludes me. I stare at the dark ceiling, the game playing over and over in my mind's eye like a grotesque highlight reel. Every goal, every missed save, every disappointed face in the crowd.

My chest constricts, breath coming short and sharp. How can I face them again? My team, my coaches, my fans?

I close my eyes, trying to summon the feeling of DJ and Syd's embrace. But all I can see is the puck sliding past me, the red light glaring.

Failure .

With a groan, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.