Page 154 of Of Pucking Course

Blomdahl scrambles to try and block it, but it’s too late. The puck lands in the net. The goal siren blares. The New York crowd is on their feet, hollering and cheering for the Wolverines’ win in overtime.

Guilt hammers me. This is my fault. If my stick hadn’t broken, I would have been able to take a shot at the Wolverines net. And even if their player had taken the puck from me, I would have been able to chase him down and check him. Or I could have tried to block that shot when Blomdahl was on the ice after deflecting that first attempt.

This loss is on me.

I glance at my teammates as they skate off the ice, heads hanging, pissed off and disappointed that we lost.

We don’t say a word as we head to the visitor locker room. I fall onto the bench, my stomach in knots, when Coach Porter takes the center and addresses us.

“I’m not going to say a lot right now,” he mutters. “I think you all know how I feel about what just happened. I’m sure you all feel the same.”

There’s a quiet tension in the room. It always sucks to lose, but this loss cuts deeper. It’s the first game of the finals. It’s the game that sets the tone for the rest of the series. And right now, the tone is utterly fucked. And it’s because of me.

Coach Porter looks at me for an extra second before walking off. I huff out a breath, rest my elbows on my knees, and cradle my face in my hands.

“I’m sorry, guys. That was on me,” I mutter.

Someone claps a hand on my back.

“It’s not your fault,” Del says. “Shit happens.”

I exhale sharply. He walks off. I sit up and start stripping off my gear. Our assistant equipment manager, Nathan, walks up to me, my broken stick in his hands.

“I, uh, I’m sorry to bother you,” he says, clearly nervous. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted this. Some guys are pretty superstitious about how they handle their sticks, even when they’re broken. I can throw it away if you want.”

I shake my head and take it from him. “It’s okay, I can deal with it. Thanks.”

I drop it in front of me and pull off all of my gear except for my pants. I grab my towel so I can head to the shower, but something on the broken blade of my stick catches my eye.

It’s broken in the exact same spot where my stick broke weeks ago during that game right before the playoffs. It’s a clean break down the middle.

I frown. What are the fucking odds?

A million thoughts race through my mind. Could it be that I just got unlucky and my sticks keep breaking in the same spot? Or is something else going on?

I grab my stick and head out of the locker room. I spot Will at the end of the hall loading up a bunch of equipment.

“Hey.” I walk up to him and hold up my stick. “What’s the deal with my sticks?”

“What do you mean?”

“The blades of my sticks keep breaking. Are you sure you’re handling our equipment carefully?”

I try to keep my tone even. I’m frustrated, but lashing out at the equipment manager isn’t how I should approach this.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, his tone hard.

I exhale sharply. “Look, I’m not trying to start shit withyou. I just think it’s weird that in the span of a month, I’ve had two different sticks break in the exact same spot.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his gaze at me. “I don’t. Hockey’s a rough sport. Sticks break pretty often. Are you really gonna get mad at me for something I have no control over?”

The frustration inside of me amps up. I swallow it back. “I’m not mad, I’m just frustrated. Are you being careful when you load the equipment? That could be causing an issue.”

He rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable. You fuck up during a game and try to blame me.”

I let out a heavy breath. “Dude, did I do something to offend you or piss you off? If I did, I’m sorry. But ever since we’ve met, you’ve made it pretty obvious that you don’t like me. Can we just clear the air already?”

He glares at me. “No need. We’re good.”

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