Page 71 of Second Shot

The visitor’s locker room at Great Lakes Arena smells like a cocktail of bleach and wet gear. I’m sitting at my stall, lacing up my skates with mechanical precision while trying to ignore the careful way everyone’s avoiding looking at Ryan and me directly.

Coach decided to play Ryan in today’s game against the Great Lakes Guardians to show the organization still has faith in him. While I’m happy for Ryan, his presence has made the locker room a very stressful place. The guys are doing their best to act normal, but you’d have to be in a coma not to feel the tension in the room.

Three stalls down, Ryan’s going through his pre-game routine, doing his best to look unfazed by the tension in the room. But his stiff posture and rigid movements give him away. It’s like he’s built invisible walls around himself that nobody, especially me, is allowed to cross. Niko is the only one who has the guts to break through Ryan’s antisocial bubble. But even he can’t get Ryan to loosen up.

I understand why Ryan’s pissed at the world. I’m pissed too, but for different reasons.It’s now been six days since Freddy dropped those bullshit lies. Six days since the media ambush. Six days since my entire world fell apart, and I’m still being told to hold off with my press conference. I gave Jed my phone three days ago, but Legal got involved and everything has ground to a halt.

Legal says they need more time to analyze the screenshots, verify metadata, double-check timestamps. They’re afraid that, even if I’m telling the truth at my press conference, my words could open the organization to lawsuits or defamation claims from Freddy. Meanwhile, Ryan’s being crucified in the media and I’m stuck here, gagged by red tape.

I watch Ryan when he’s not looking, chest aching with the desire to go over an tell him I’m on his side. I just want to wrap my arms around him and let him know he’s not alone. But I can’t do that shit in the locker room, and my focus needs to be on the game tonight. Not to mention, as surly as Ryan looks, he’d probably pop me in the jaw if I tried to touch him.

Since Ryan won’t talk to me, he has no idea that behind the scenes, I’m trying to help him. He leaves practice so fast I can’t catch him before he’s gone. He’s completely shut me out. I’m positive at this point he’s blocked me on his phone, and he won’t open the door to me at his condo. It’s killing me not being able to talk to him. It’s killingme not being able to touch him. It’s killing me not being able to reassure him that I’ve got his back.

“Alright, boys,” Coach Donnelly’s voice cuts through the muted conversations and equipment sounds. “We all know what’s at stake tonight. Great Lakes is desperate, and desperate teams are dangerous.”

Foster catches my eye for a split second before looking away, and I can see the concern etched in his face. Even Niko, who usually finds something to joke about in any situation, is unusually quiet as he adjusts his gloves.

“First line,” Coach continues, and I feel my stomach tighten. “I need you three to set the tone early. Show them we don’t listen to gossip. Show them all what Seadragon hockey looks like.”

Ryan acknowledges the comment with a nod, but doesn’t look at me or Petrov. Just continues taping his stick with the kind of aggressive precision that suggests he’s imagining it’s someone’s neck.

Probably mine.

“Hey.” Petrov appears beside me as I stand to adjust my shoulder pads. “You two going to be able to do this?”

“Coach wouldn’t have put Ryan and me in the game together if he didn’t trust us to act like professionals,” I say, even though it doesn’t really answer his question. I understand why he’sasking. Yesterday’s practice was a mess. Ryan and I were the complete opposite of magic out there on the ice. I don’t think Ryan said one word to me the entire practice, and he bounced the second it was over.

“That’s not what I asked.” Petrov frowns.

I look across the room at Ryan, who’s now standing and stretching, still pointedly ignoring my existence.

“All I know is I’m happy Caldwell’s back,” I say to Petrov. “I’ll do everything I can to help us win this game.”

“Okay, good.” Petrov smiles and slaps me on the back, but he still looks worried.

The walk through the tunnel for our pre-game warm-up feels more stressful than usual. The sound of our skates on the rubber flooring echoes off concrete walls painted in Great Lakes’ blue and silver, while the distant sound of the crowd grows louder with each step. Ryan’s ahead of me in the line, close enough that I could reach out and touch his shoulder, but he might as well be on another planet.

When we step onto the ice for warm-ups, the arena erupts in noise. Fans with tickets are already in their seats. Hardcore regulars and families who show up early, hoping to catch a puck tossed over the glass or see us up close without our helmets. Most of us don’t wear themduring warm-ups, and this is the one time they get a clear look at our faces.

Tonight, the attention feels different. The scrutiny feels more intense. I suppose that’s because everyone wants to see if the scandal-ridden Seadragons can hold it together long enough to stay playoff-bound and prove they deserve their spot. But at least the ice is perfect, freshly resurfaced and gleaming under the arena lights. I take a deep breath of the cold air, trying to center myself the way I always do before big games.

“Let’s go, Dragons,”someone screams from the stands, and I catch sight of a small section of fans wearing our colors. They’ve traveled here to support us, to believe in us despite all the drama, and the thought of letting them down makes my chest tighten.

After the warm up, we go back to the locker room. I try not to obsess about how shitty the warm-up was as far as Ryan and me. The warm-up is supposed to get our bodies and minds ready for the sixty minutes of the controlled violence coming our way soon. But every time I tried to make eye contact with Ryan out on the ice, every time I attempted the smallest communication, I was met with, at best, professional politeness that cut deeper than outright hostility would.

It was like playing with a stranger.

With a few minutes to spare before we go back out on the ice, I try to pull Ryan aside. I’m desperate to tell him I’m not his enemy. That he just needs to trust me and everything will be okay. But when I try to talk to him, all I get is a curt, “Not now, Jacobs.” His green eyes are so cold and full of anger, I back off. I’ll try again later, after the game, because I need him to understand I’m on his side.

We return to the arena for game time. The anthem plays as we line up along the blue line with our helmets off, hands over hearts. I’m standing two feet from Ryan, close enough to see the tight line of his jaw, the way his breathing is just slightly too controlled. He’s hurting. I can see it in the tension around his eyes, in the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid he might break apart if he relaxes for even a second.

And there’s nothing I can do about it. He wouldn’t let me if I could.

The puck drops, and for the first ten minutes, muscle memory takes over. Ryan and I move through our patterns like we’ve been programmed, cycling the puck, creating space, finding the soft spots in Great Lakes’ defense. To an outside observer, we probably look fine.

But I can feel the difference in every pass, every play. The connection that used to feel telepathic now feels mechanical. We’re executing the system, but we’re not really playing as a unit.We’re worse than we were the first time we practiced together. Despite telling everyone we’re professionals who can push past our personal issues, we’re struggling.

Our first real scoring chance comes eight minutes in. I carry the puck into Great Lakes’ zone and see Ryan breaking toward the net, exactly where he should be. The pass is perfect, right on his tape, and he’s got a clean look at the goal.

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