Page 11 of Reach Around

“You said you had my back,” I accuse, stopping hard enough that ice shavings scatter.

Bennett shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I did. Your way, way back,BroFetti.”

The retort stings more than it should, given the circumstances. “You’re really hard to like sometimes,” I shoot back, the frustration of the moment making my words sharper.

“Same, dude,” Bennett replies, clapping me on the shoulder with a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s the family embarrassment that gets to me.”

As I skate off the ice, the boos still echoing in my ears, the humiliation is a heavy cloak around my shoulders. I pull myself together, the weight of the night still pressing down. I know there’ll be fallout, jokes at my expense, maybe even a clip or two going viral for all the wrong reasons. But amid that chaos, there’s a clarity forming, an understanding that sometimes, it takes a fall to really see who’s willing to help you back up—and who’s been at your side all along, just waiting for you to notice.

The puck drops, and I’m all adrenaline and shaky overcompensation. First shift, I overskate a pass that evenChance Sawyer’s peewee team could’ve landed. The puck slides right under my blade like it’s allergic to me. I clamp my jaw so tight my molars might crack.

I hear Bennett behind me on the bench, muttering under his breath, “Smooth.”

He doesn’t say it loud enough for anyone but me to hear, but it lands like a punch anyway.

Next shift, I push harder—too hard. I chase the puck like a fucking Golden Retriever on a tennis ball. I manage to snag it on a turnover, but the second I try to set up the shot, two defensemen collapse on me. My shot sails wide, slamming the glass with a hollow thunk that feels like a goddamn soundtrack to my career.

Back on the bench, Coach Duff doesn’t say a word, which is somehow worse than him going nuclear. He just tightens his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s trying to keep himself from yanking me off the bench permanently.

Shep leans in next to me, trying to break the tension. “You’re still my MVP, BroFetti. For the record.”

I shove his shoulder, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Blow me.”

Third period rolls around, and the ice feels heavier than it should. My legs are lead. My brain’s mud. The other team is toying with us now. Every shift is like skating through concrete. Every pass I touch turns to shit.

The fans are getting restless. I hear them groaning after every blown chance, the kind of groans that make your skin crawl and your heart sink. The ones that say, ‘we expected more from you’.

I catch Boone’s eye as I pass the bench, and he doesn’t say anything, either. Just scowls like I’m a busted gear in the family machine.

We pull Gage with two minutes left, desperate for a miracle. Spoiler alert—we don’t get one.

The other team scores the empty-netter. The place deflates like a popped balloon.

When the buzzer finally sounds, it feels like a mercy kill.

I skate off last, helmet low, chin tucked. The guys ahead of me bang their sticks on the boards, but it’s not celebration. It’s frustration. One by one, they peel off toward the tunnel.

I linger at center ice for a second too long. I can feel the eyes on me. The weight of every wrong move, every missed shot, every second I wasted dancing like a jackass for clicks instead of goals.

I hunch my shoulders and skate off after them, leaving every last shred of dignity in the arena. No one says much; nothing needs to be said. The clatter of sticks and the shuffle of skates on the concrete floor of the tunnel are the only sounds that follow us as we head to the locker room.

I don’t even make it to my stall before Bennett cuts in, voice low but sharp enough to slice me clean in half. “You gonna pull your head outta your ass sometime this season, or…?”

Since he’s forgone brother mode for captain mode, I don’t even bother looking at him. I just keep walking, letting his words ricochet around my skull like they’ve got nowhere else to go.

Shep’s standing at his locker, shaking his head like I personally ruined his night. “Should’ve let me take the last shift, BroFetti. I was feelin’ it.”

I shoot him a look that could burn the paint off the walls, but he just grins, like this—me falling apart—is all just a joke to him.

Holden doesn’t say a damn word. Doesn’t have to. The way he loosens the laces on his skates like he’s imagining they’re my throat says plenty.

I sink down on the bench, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answers which it doesn’t. And even worse, I know what’s waiting when I walk out of here.

My mother.

Ready to light me up because I embarrassed the name stitched on the back of my jersey. Again.

I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars, trying to block it all out. But there’s only one face I see. Joely. The only person who won’t hand me my ass tonight. The only person who still looks at me like I’m not already a lost cause. The only place I can fall without hitting concrete.

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