Page 14 of Second Shot

Jacobs intercepts a pass in our defensive zone and immediately looks for me breaking up the ice. His pass is perfect, tape to tape, leadingme cleanly into open space. I’m alone on a breakaway, just me and their goalie, with seventeen thousand people on their feet screaming.

This is it. This is why they traded for me. This is the moment that justifies everything.

I deke left, then right, trying to sell the fake. The goalie doesn’t bite, staying patient in his crease. I’m running out of room, running out of time, so I go with instinct, a quick snap shot to the far corner, aiming for the space between his pad and the post.

The puck hits his blocker and deflects wide.

The crowd erupts in relief while I slam my stick against the ice in frustration. So close. So fucking close to being the hero in my first game.

Overtime.

Three-on-three hockey is pure chaos, wide open ice, breakneck speed, and the constant threat that any mistake could end the game in an instant. Every shift feels like a high-wire act without a net, every touch of the puck potentially deciding everything.

I’m on the ice for the first shift with Petrov and Marlowe, our best players against theirs in a game of skill and nerves. The extra space makes everything happen faster. Passes have to be perfect, positioning becomes critical, and there’s nowhere to hide if you make a mistake.

We control the puck for the first minute, cycling it around the zone with Marlowe stepping up from the point to create a three-man rotation. When the opportunity comes, it develops like lightning, Marlowe to Petrov to me, then I spot Petrov breaking toward the net and slide it back to him for what should be an easy tap-in.

But their goalie slides across impossibly fast, getting just enough of the puck to deflect it wide. Vegas breaks the other way on the rebound, and suddenly it’s Roberts and their top defenseman racing toward Niko on a two-on-one.

Marlowe backpedals desperately, trying to take away the pass while staying close enough to challenge the shot. Roberts holds the puck until the last second before sliding it across to his teammate, who has a yawning net to shoot at.

Niko somehow gets his pad across, but the rebound bounces right back to Roberts. From six feet out, with half the net open, he doesn’t miss.

The red light blazes. The crowd loses its collective mind. The Raptors pile on top of each other in celebration while we stand frozen in place, processing the reality of defeat.

My first game as a Seadragon, and we lost.

Fuck.

I skate off in a daze, stick tapping a few opponents as we pass, barely hearing the muttered good games. My mind’s already replaying every missed opportunity.

In the locker room afterward, the silence is deafening. Guys sit with their heads down, processing the loss in their own ways. Coach Donnelly keeps his post-game speech short. We played well, Vegas got some bounces, shake it off and get ready for the next one. I appreciate that he doesn’t single me out, or look at me with buyer’s remorse. But I’m still gutted.

I can feel the weight of expectations crushing down on me. They traded away prospects and picks to get me here, betting that I could be the difference maker. And in my first real test, I came up short.

“Hell of a game, Caldwell,” Petrov says quietly as he passes my stall.

Other guys echo the sentiment as they file out, Foster clapping me on the shoulder, Marlowe nodding his approval, even Knox grunting something that might have been encouragement. They’re trying to be supportive, trying to make me feel like part of the team. The way they handle the loss just shows what great guys they are.

But I can’t shake the feeling that they’re just being polite. That deep down, they’re wonderingif maybe the trade was a mistake. If maybe I’m not the player they thought they were getting.

Jacobs pauses near my stall as he heads for the showers, and for a moment I think he might say something. Some acknowledgment of the chances we created together, the chemistry that’s clearly building between us. Instead, he says nothing and just keeps walking.

I sit there for a long time, still in my gear, staring at the floor and wondering if this move will end up as a disaster for my career. I was doing great back in Chicago. No one expected me to be Super Man. I thought I played really well tonight, but it wasn’t enough. I really fucking needed this win tonight, if only to settle my nerves and give me a little confidence. But the universe had other plans.

Outside, Vegas is already forgetting about us, moving on to the next game, the next story. Niko and the guys still want to party. I fake a smile and pretend I want to do that too. But what I really want to do is go back to the hotel and lick my wounds. But if I tell the others I don’t want to go, they might label me as a prima donna. So I suck it up and share an Uber with some of the guys.

The neon of Vegas bleeds into everything at midnight, pink and gold and electric blue bouncing off the glass facades of casinos, painting the sidewalks in artificial color thatmakes the loss feel even more surreal. We spill out of our Uber onto the Strip eager to drink away the taste of defeat.

“First stop,” Niko announces, his platinum hair catching the light from a massive LED billboard, “has to be somewhere with strong drinks and weak lighting. I look like shit right now.”

“You always look like shit,” Foster shoots back, but there’s no real heat in it. We’re all still processing the game, the way it slipped through our fingers in overtime. The banter feels forced, like we’re all trying too hard to pretend losing doesn’t matter. Of course it matters. We’re bred to win.

Marlowe leads us into a place called Apex, all black leather, chrome, and bass-heavy music that rattles your bones. The bartenders look like they moonlight as fitness models, with sharp smiles and abs on display. It’s the kind of place where bottle service costs as much as leasing a car, but none of us are thinking about money. We’re here to soothe our wounded pride with overpriced liquor.

The hostess clocks us the second we walk in. Or maybe she just knows the type: six guys in tailored suits with athletic builds and too much money, looking to forget or celebrate, depending on the night. Places like this live off pro teams, whether they’re dragging in after a loss or ridinghigh off a win. It doesn’t matter. We get a corner booth with a clear view of the dance floor and a cocktail waitress named Crystal who promises, with a practiced smile, to “take care of our needs.”

Can you turn back time, Crystal? Cuz that’s what I need right now.

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