Page 31 of Second Shot

Ryan and I get the first shift with Marlowe, and for ninety seconds we dominate. We cycle the puck like we’re running a clinic, creating chances that their goalie somehow manages to save. When Ryan gets a breakaway with forty seconds left, I’m certain this is it. This is the moment that validates everything our team has worked for.

But their goalie makes a save that will be on highlight reels for the rest of the season, somehow getting his pad across to rob Ryan ofwhat should have been the winner. I watch it all happen like it’s in slow motion, and the devastated look on Ryan’s face makes me want to puke.

The game ends the way too many games end, with a defensive breakdown that happens so fast I’m still processing it when their puck hits our net. A two-on-one that Marlowe can’t stop, a shot that beats Niko through the five-hole, and suddenly the red light is blazing behind our goal.

OTL. Overtime loss.

Again.

One point instead of two, and another step closer to missing the playoffs entirely.

The postgame routine is a blur of good games and empty smiles, professional courtesy masking the devastation settling into my bones. But it’s Ryan I’m watching as we skate toward the tunnel, and what I see makes my chest tighten.

He’s not angry or frustrated the way he was after Vegas. He’s broken. Moving like someone who’s failed too many times. I can see the fear and worry etched into his handsome face. He feels personally responsible for this loss. He’s doubting his abilities. It’s bullshit, but I can see that’s how this loss has hit him.

Knowing who he is and what he did to me when we were kids, I shouldn’t care. He deserves to feel like shit, right? But the problem is, I alsoknow this more mature version of Ryan, and that guy doesn’t deserve to hurt like he’s hurting. That guy is sweet and he shouldn’t be taking this loss as only his. We just got outplayed. It happens sometimes.

In the locker room, he sits at his stall in full gear for a long time after everyone else has started undressing. Staring at his hands, processing things. He doesn’t even look up when Coach gives a short speech.

“Hell of a game, boys,” Coach Donnelly says, grimacing. “Sometimes you play your asses off and still don’t get the result. That’s hockey. But that effort, that fight, that’s what we need every night. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It just wasn’t our night. We’ll get it next time.”

Most of the guys nod along, understanding that these losses happen over the course of a season. But I can see Ryan’s jaw working, can practically hear the negative, self-loathing thoughts churning in his head. Two games. Two losses. The trade that was supposed to push us over the edge isn’t working, and he’s taking it personally.

After everyone showers, makes dinner plans, and tries to forget the game we just lost, Ryan’s still sitting there. Still in his gear. Still staring at nothing. The guys all patted him on the back, and told him he played well. He noddedand smiled, but I can tell he wasn’t really listening.

“Caldwell,” I say quietly, and he looks up like he’s surprised to find he’s not alone.

“Yeah?”

“We played well tonight. You included.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Well enough to lose. Again.”

“Sometimes that happens.”

“Yeah, especially when I’m around.” His green eyes are hard, challenging.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” He starts pulling off his gear, movements sharp and angry. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like it happens every time I step on the ice for this team.”

“We were all out there on the ice. Why is this just on you?”

He shakes his head, his face tense. “I’m just saying what everyone is thinking. Bringing me on board was a mistake. I’m not helping anything. I’m just fucking everything up.”

“That isn’t true.” I move closer, frustration eating at me. “We all played our hearts out tonight. You included. You madetwogoals. Luck just wasn’t on our side for the win.”

He scowls. “If it all just comes down to luck, then why the fuck even try? What’s the damn point?”

The words hang between us. I’m not sure what to tell him. I get what he’s saying, but he’s dead wrong if he thinks he’s the reason we lost tonight. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him how I truly feel about him joining our team. I want to tell him he’s everything we need him to be, that our chemistry is the best thing that’s happened to this team in years. I want to tell him I’ve never felt so connected to a left winger before. But a part of me, the part that remembers being eleven years old and bullied, wonders if maybe this pain is exactly what he deserves.

Ryan Caldwell deserves to be humbled, right?

The conflict twists in my chest as I watch him undressing. He’s hurting, and I have the power to make it better or worse. He’s vulnerable right now. If I want real revenge, I could pile on. I could twist the knife until he breaks completely. I know my opinion matters to him. He won’t even look at me because he’s afraid of what he might see in my eyes. Condemnation. Blame. Pity.

He heads to the showers, and I can’t help but watch him go. Hunger spikes in me as I take in the flex of his muscular ass, and the curve of his sinewy thighs. His shoulder muscles arebroad and strong, tapering down to a narrow waist and a perfect ass. I want that ass. I need that ass. Maybe I should drag Ryan to my place and fuck him until he forgets all about this shitty game.

I’m breathless at the thought of that. It’s insanity to consider bringing my childhood bully home with me, but the idea is also exhilarating. Instinctively, I know Ryan would feel better if I take him home with me. He’d forget all about our loss tonight if he were under me, begging for reassurance. That would make him feel so much better. I can see him now, flushed and needy as I thrust inside him and tell him what a good boy he is.

---