The Dare
Minnesota ties it up with a wrist shot from one of their forwards just as the second period winds down. We trudge into our locker room feeling the heavy weight of that score, 1-1, bearing down on our shoulders.
“Unacceptable!” Coach Jensen rides our D-men the moment the door swings shut. “We let them dominate us those last three minutes. Where was our defense, huh? Jerking off in the corner?”
Matt, who was the leading scorer among the defense all season, hangs his head in shame. “Sorry, Coach. That one’s on me. Couldn’t intercept that pass.”
“We got this, Coach,” Hunter says, steel in his eyes. “We’ll finish ’em off in the third.”
But everything goes wrong in the third period.
Gavin crumples to the ice out of nowhere with a pulled hamstring and has to exit the game. Matt then gets tossed in the sin bin on a major penalty. We manage to kill it, but with the clock winding down it seems Minnesota is picking us apart. They’re catching their second wind while half of us are gassing out. Maintaining the high pressure becomes more difficult and cracks form in our defense. The offense can’t find any openings to force turnovers or break away.
The game turns into an uphill, brutal battle for us. Our opponent is now faster and more aggressive, and that’s when it happens. Minnesota strings together four uninterrupted passes and catches all of us a step too slow. Their left-winger slaps the puck past our goalie Boris’s glove to put Minnesota up by a point.
It’s one point too many.
We can’t claw our way back. The buzzer goes off to signal the end of the third. The end of the game.
We’ve been eliminated.
Back in the locker room, it’s like a fucking wake. No one says a word or even looks at each other. Gavin, with ice taped to his thigh, launches a trashcan across the room, and the resounding crash makes everyone flinch. As a senior, this was his last chance for a championship, and he couldn’t even finish the game. No matter what anyone says, he’ll be convinced for the rest of his life that he could’ve made the difference. Same for Matt, who will torture himself with the guilt that taking that penalty cost us the momentum we might’ve had to tie it up.
When Coach Jensen walks in, the room is silent but for the rotating fan whirring in the corner.
“This one hurts,” he says flatly, rubbing his jaw. He’s sweating nearly as much as the rest of us.
Negative emotions pollute the air we’re breathing. Anger, frustration, disappointment. And the exhaustion of playing at such a high level for so long is slowly seeping into our bones, causing shoulders to sag and chins to drop.
“That’s not how we wanted to go out,” Coach continues. “For the seniors, I wanted to get you guys to the big dance—we just didn’t have it tonight. For everyone else, we do it all again next year.”
Next year.
Hunter and I exchange a determined look. As juniors, we have one last shot to leave a legacy at Briar. Gold and glory and all that.
Straying from his usual short-and-not-at-all-sweet style, Coach goes on to say he’s encouraged by the way we played tonight, by the progress we’ve made since the start of the season.
I choose to believe better days are ahead, because right now the feeling in this room is miserable. A dream died tonight. And it’s only now, I think, that most of us are realizing we were entirely convinced we had this title in the bag. It never occurred to us we wouldn’t be playing in the final. Now we just go home and pretend it doesn’t gnaw at our insides.
I fucking hate losing.
15
Taylor
Friday night was rough. After Briar’s epic loss, the guys hit the mini bar hard and then crashed until noon the next day.
I’m not entirely sure why Conor wanted me to drive all the way to Buffalo, seeing as how I spent the hours after his game having drinks with Brenna Jensen and Summer Di Laurentis, two of Hunter Davenport’s roommates, and Demi Davis, Hunter’s girlfriend. The four of us had a proper girls’ night. We had a great time at the hotel bar, and I won’t deny how helpful it was to sit with them during the game, as they were able to explain the rules when something happened that I didn’t understand.
Although, to be honest, I still couldn’t tell you what offsides means or what constitutes icing. Conor getting a timeout for tackling a guy, I figured out on my own. But the rest of the hockey lingo Brenna was throwing out like a pro went right over my head. As I understand it, hockey is basically a bunch of first graders fighting over a little black puck while the referee tries to keep them from killing each other. It’s cute.
Coach Jensen gave anyone who wanted to permission to hang back in Buffalo, a consolation gift of sorts, so several of Conor’s teammates paid for an extra night at the hotel. I’ve got my room till Sunday, on another floor than the Briar players, thankfully. I ran into Demi in the tiny hotel fitness center this morning, and according to her, the entire fifth floor was hoppin’ from last night’s depression binge drinking. She said she and Hunter hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.
Despite Conor saying the other day that he was going to need consoling, we barely exchanged ten words after the game. He was commiserating with his teammates, which I understand. But I’m grateful the girls were around to keep me company.
Everyone seems to be in better spirits this morning. In the hotel restaurant, I meet Conor for brunch, along with a few of the others who stayed behind.
“Where’re Brenna and Summer?” I slide into the chair next to Conor’s and set down the plate of food I just gathered at the buffet. And by food I mean brown toast and one hard-boiled egg. Yum. “And Demi,” I add when I notice Hunter is sitting alone.
“Brenna’s Skyping with her boyfriend,” Bucky supplies. “She’s in the room next to mine and I heard them through the wall.”
“Perv,” Conor says while chewing on a piece of bacon.
“Hey, not my fault this hotel has paper-thin walls.”
“Summer dragged Demi on some errand,” Hunter tells me. “No idea where.”
“What’s ’a matter?” Foster grins at me. “You don’t like being the only chick at the sausage party?” To punctuate that, he picks up a greasy sausage from his plate and takes a comical chunk out of it with his teeth.
I burst out laughing. “There is so much subliminal shit going on with what you just did, I can’t even begin to unpack it.”
Across the table, Hunter raises his coffee cup and takes a quick sip. “So what are we doing today?”
“T and I are hitting a mall,” Conor answers in that lazy drawl of his.
“Sweet. Can I come?” Bucky pipes up. “I need socks. Already lost all the ones my mom got me for Christmas.”
“I’m in too,” says Hunter. “My girlfriend abandoned me and I’m bored.”
I slowly chew and swallow a piece of toast. “Um.” Feeling awkward, I glance at Conor, then his teammates. “This isn’t exactly a group activity sorta thing.”
Hunter lifts a brow. “The mall isn’t a suitable group activity?”
“They’re going to buy sex toys,” Foster announces. “Guarantee it.”