CHAPTER EIGHT

N oah

I shrivel inside myself. The other hockey players are silent when I join them on the bench. Their gazes bounce away from me. I inhale a shaky breath, and Jason leans near me. "Remember, we're on camera."

"Er...right." I nod, but Jason doesn't want to have a conversation. He wants to make sure I don't start crying or something.

I stare straight ahead. My eyes burn, but I clench my jaw.

I wonder how many times the channels replayed my fall. How many hundreds of thousands of people have seen this? And how many more will?

I don't get called onto the ice, even though that's my job. Someone else fills in for me.

I close my eyes. God, who from my hometown is watching? My parents, who drove me to hockey practice, even though I now know the sport costs way more than they could afford? Even my out-of-the-way place in New Hampshire, which didn't have fabulous teachers and trainers was expensive. Equipment is expensive.

And now, it's my big break. The dream I spent my whole life working on...and I suck at it. And not the kind where I drift into the background and am mediocre. No, I'm terrible.

Why did I fall? I haven't fallen inadvertently during a hockey game since I was a kid. That puck surprised me. I should have been thankful its was within reach. I could have done something with it. Like passed. Maybe gotten an assist .

I close my eyes, then remember that the cameras might pan on my face at any moment. I won't add crying to my list of humiliations. I won't.

I press my teeth against my lower lip so hard I taste blood.

My teammates must have seen it. My old coach in Providence. Maybe I'll be back there tomorrow. I squirm in my seat, wondering how my roommates will react when I show up. Will they laugh? It will be back to dirty dishes and a dirty apartment and squeaky noises. My stomach twists.

I shouldn't have longed for more. I should have left hockey playing behind like all the other little kids I played with.

Hockey games are long, and it's obvious I'm the only person not playing. The other guys are great, but they seem distracted.

Boston loses to Buffalo, 1-2.

We return to the safety of the locker room, though the disdain of twenty-odd hockey players is as powerful as the disdain of a stadium full of viewers. I strip off my clothes. Will I ever be in a Blizzards uniform again? I don't deserve to be.

The tile is cold under my feet, even though sweat pours off everyone else. But they were working. I wasn't.

Finn enters the locker room. His large eyes find mine at once, rounded with something that looks like concern, but shouldn't be. I don't deserve anyone's concern. I've let everyone down. I ruined his party, ruined his game.

Coach Holberg enters, his face grim and stony. His thinning straight blond hair sticks out in odd directions like straw. No doubt he spent the game raking his hands through his hair.

He sighs when he sees me. Lots of people sigh when they see me now.

"Okay, guys. We did not show them what the Blizzards can do. I cannot believe I have to say this, because you're all adults, but no one should play hungover."

Everyone's gazes slide toward me.

"Many people, they depend on us," Coach continues. "The least everyone can do is show up prepared to give their best. And I mean it, that is the absolute least."

Everyone's gazes slide toward me again.

I squirm.

"Fitzpatrick, see me in my office tomorrow morning."

I swallow hard. So that's it. I'm out.

Coach is going to fire me. I worked my whole life to play hockey, to have this chance at the NHL. And then I failed. Utterly. I let Coach down. I let my teammates down. I let everyone whoever helped me, whoever believed in me down.

Finn jumps up from the bench. He glowers at Coach, his face pink, his shirt off, revealing his taut muscles. "It wasn't his fault."

Everyone's gazes roll to Finn, me included.

"Stay out of this," Coach says.

"No," Finn's voice is firm, and he shakes his head, even though he's contradicting Coach right in front of everyone. "Noah had one cocktail last night. I made it. It was way too strong. I don't normally make cocktails, and I guess everything I put in the glass was strong and even when you make a cocktail you're supposed to use orange juice instead of orange tequila..."

"God." Coach glares. "You two are adults. Do you know what social media looks like now?"

I shrivel.

"Hell, Sport Sphere Network is going crazy."

Finn's face is ashen.

"I am furious." Coach's hands clench.

Coach sighs. "Okay, Fitzpatrick. You can come to Vegas with us. But if I hear anything about more parties, more careless behavior, I will remove you from the team. And if you do not play the best hockey of your life..."

"I'm out."

Coach gives a curt nod, then exits. Everyone avoids looking at me, and my insides squish together.

I have one more chance.