14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Leo

I lace up my skates, my fingers moving on autopilot. The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy, but I'm disconnected from it all. I’m still struggling to shake off the heavy, unsettling feeling that's been plaguing me since I woke up this morning. And the familiar routine is doing little to calm my nerves. Instead, every tug feels like it's cinching tighter around my chest instead of just securing my skates.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, yanking the waxed laces with more force than necessary.

Wyatt glances over, his brow furrowed. “You good?”

I grunt noncommittally, avoiding his gaze. How can I tell him I feel like I'm drowning? That every game feels like it could be my last? He's my friend, sure, but he's also my teammate.

And I'm the captain. I can't show weakness.

The sinking feeling that my career is already in its twilight years settles over me like a heavy blanket. My body knows it, even if my mind rebels against the notion. Every creak of my joints, every twinge of an old injury serves as a stark reminder.

And I have nothing to show for it.

The thought hits me like a body check, leaving me winded. A chill runs over my skin, goosebumps rising along my arms. Self-doubt always brings me back to that night with Wendy, to the promise I made as I held her hand in mine. The memory of her tired smile, the faith in her eyes as I swore to win a championship for her.

But I can't let her down, not when I've sacrificed so much, not when I've pushed my body to its limits year after year. And especially not after I've missed so many of my kids' milestones, justified by the pursuit of this dream.

I run my calloused fingers over the tape on my stick, a gesture I've repeated countless times over my career. The rough texture grounds me, even as everything else seems to spin out of control.

Wyatt's heavy hand claps my shoulder. “Come on. Let's do this.”

I nod, pushing to my feet. Time to be the captain, the leader they need me to be. I square my shoulders and lead the team out onto the ice. “Let’s show them what we're made of.”

We take to the ice for warm-ups, and I force myself to focus on the familiar routines. The scrape of blades on ice, the satisfying thwack of puck meeting stick—it should be comforting. Instead, each sound seems to echo the ticking clock of my career.

I take a few laps, trying to shake off the heaviness in my limbs. People are still coming into the arena. Common for weekday games. Most fans are just getting off of work. Not that I’d spot any familiar faces.

Or at least, none tonight since it’s a school night.

After taking a few shots on net, I make my way over to where Morrow is stretching. Dropping down, I extend out a leg to loosen my hamstring. “Ready for tonight?”

“As much as I can be.” He maneuvers to stretch his hip flexors. “Heard they have some secret analytics thing they are working on. Some are saying it’s one of the reasons they are doing so well.”

“Read something like that myself online.” I switch legs. “How’re you doing otherwise?”

The kid’s still very reserved and I can’t tell if he’s just quiet or if he’s withdrawing. My vote is on the latter being I’ve caught him chastising himself on more than one occasion. But it still doesn’t explain why he avoids us.

Even I’ve been out to the bar with the guys on occasion. Okay, more so when I had to babysit Wyatt.

“Fine. Just adjusting. Looks like warm-ups are done.” The last word is barely out as he skates away.

A few minutes later the first period starts, and it's clear we're not clicking. Passes go astray, ricocheting off skates or sailing wide of their intended targets. Shots miss the net, pinging off the boards with disappointing thuds. Our defensive coverage is spotty at best, leaving gaping holes for the opposing team to exploit.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to scream. Frustration builds with each botched play, each missed opportunity.

During a line change, I slam the bench door shut. “We need to tighten up out there!”

Wyatt leans in, his voice low. “Dude, calm down. You're gripping your stick so tight you're gonna snap it in half.”

I look down, realizing he's right. My knuckles are white, the tape on my stick crumpled under the force of my grip. I take a deep breath, trying to heed his advice. But as the period wears on, our play doesn't improve.

The opposing team scores twice in quick succession. The first goal slips through Smitty's five-hole, a soft one he'd usually stop in his sleep. The second comes off a turnover in our own zone, a sloppy pass that might as well have been gift-wrapped for their forward.

We head into the locker room after the first period down 2-0.

Coach paces back and forth, his face red. “What the hell was that out there? You're playing like a bunch of peewees! You’re all better than this. We know it, they know it. Let's go out there and prove it. One shift at a time, one play at a time.”

We all nod, but there’s doubt in my teammates’ eyes. It mirrors my own, and that realization twists in my gut like a knife. How can I inspire confidence in them when I can barely muster it for myself?

As we head back out for the second period, Hudson skates up beside me. “Let's turn this around, yeah.”

I give him a curt not, trying to project a confidence I don't feel.

The second period starts marginally better. We're generating more chances, the puck spending more time in their zone. But still, we can't seem to find the back of the net. And with each missed opportunity, the frustration builds, not just in me but in every player on the bench. I can see it in the set of their jaws, the way they slam their sticks against the boards after each shift. Even in some of the unnecessary penalties we’re making.

“Keep pushing,” I urge, meeting each pair of eyes. “We're getting closer. One of these is bound to go in.”

Mykyta nods, his usual cocky grin replaced by a look of grim determination. “Yeah, and when it does, the floodgates will open. We've just gotta keep at it.”

But as the period wears on, that elusive goal continues to evade us. And the crowd grows restless, their cheers becoming more sporadic and halfhearted.

As we enter the final period, desperation fuels our play. We're throwing everything we have at their net, but their goalie stands tall. With each save, our playoff hopes slip further away. The weight of my promise to Wendy presses down on me, making each stride on the ice feel like I'm skating through quicksand.

With five minutes left, Coach calls a timeout. We gather around, panting and sweating. “All right, boys. It's now or never. Hartman, I want you out there with Clanton and Kovalenko. Let's see if we can't make some magic happen.”

I nod, steeling myself for what could be our last chance. As we take to the ice, I lean in to Wyatt and Mykyta. “We're ending this drought now.”

The puck drops, and we're off. Wyatt wins the faceoff, sending it back to Hudson. He fires it around the boards where Mykyta picks it up.

“Clanton, go to the net!” I bark out, seeing an opening developing.

As Wyatt crashes the crease, drawing the defensemen with him, I find some open ice. Mykyta spots me and sends a perfect pass right to my tape.

The goalie shifts, trying to read my intentions. In a split second decision, I fake a shot, then slide the puck over to Mykyta, who's managed to shake free of his coverage.

He doesn't hesitate, one-timing it into the back of the net. The goal horn blares and the crowd erupts, their cheers washing over us like a wave.

“Fuck yeah!” Mykyta screams, throwing himself into my arms. The rest of the team piles on, a tangle of limbs and sticks.

As we skate back to the bench, Wyatt grins at me. “See? Told you we'd get one. Now let's get another.”

The goal seems to have broken the dam. Suddenly, we're playing like the team I know we can be. Passes connect, shots find their target, and our defensive coverage tightens up.

With just under a minute left, we manage to tie the game. The arena is deafening as we head to overtime, the fans on their feet, willing us to complete the comeback.

In the huddle before overtime starts, I look each of my teammates in the eye. “This is our game. We've clawed our way back into this. Let's finish it.”

The next twenty minutes are a back-and-forth affair, both teams trading chances. My heart pounds in my chest with each rush up the ice, the fear of letting this opportunity slip away driving me forward. Every muscle burns, fatigue setting in, but I push through it.

With thirty seconds left, I intercept a pass in our zone and take off. Mykyta calls for the puck, but I see their defenseman inching toward him.

I fake the pass, then cut to the middle. Their other defensemen steps up to challenge me, but I manage to chip the puck past him.

This isn't just about this game. It's about our playoff hopes, about my promise to Wendy, about proving that I'm not washed up. About showing that I still have something left to give.

I deke once, twice, then lift the puck over the sprawling goaltender. Time stands still as I watch it sail toward the net.

The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is the sweetest thing I've ever heard. The arena explodes, and my teammates pour off the bench, mobbing me in celebration.

We're still in the playoff race, but just barely.

In the locker room, amidst the celebration, I find a quiet corner to catch my breath. The pressure weighs on my chest, threatening to suffocate me. We won tonight, but what about the next game? And the one after that?

And what happens if we lose the next one? What do I have left when the final whistle blows on my career? My wife is gone. My children are growing up faster than I can keep up with. Without hockey, who am I?

Mykyta’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Cap! Get over here, man!”

I paste on a smile and join the celebration, but even as I go through the motions—congratulating my teammates, answering reporters' questions—a part of me remains detached, observing from a distance.

Later, I finally make my way out of the arena, my gear bag slung over my shoulder, the weight of it seeming to mirror the burden I carry. As I start the engine to my car, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. The man staring back looks tired, worn. There's a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of rest seems to erase.

But tomorrow is another day, another chance to fight for our playoff spot. Another opportunity to prove that I still belong in this game, that I'm not ready to be put out to pasture just yet.

One game, one shift, one play, one goal at a time.