Page 25 of Heart Check
The rest of the guys aren’t doing any better. They’re distracted, trying to follow Dan’s orders to “Pass!” and “Run the play!” and then Noah’s to “Push for the goal!” and “Keep them guessing!” No one knows how to play this way. Dan’s wreaked havoc with our chemistry and our strategy.
I should be able to save this somehow. In a moment of desperation, as the clock runs down, I try to pass to Noah to set up for a goal, but my timing’s all off. Turnover to Washington, and before we can recover, they get past Sam for another goal. But this time, it’s my fault.
It’s a bloodbath.
When we’re done shaking hands, I look up at the home stands, searching for the scout Noah pointed out to me.
I can’t find him anywhere.
My stomach plummets. He must’ve left when he realized there wasn’t anything here worth watching. I can only pray he didn’t see my shitty pass.
Somehow, I find Harper’s eyes again. Probably because she’s just a few rows down, closer to the ice. Her expression is almost… sympathetic? At least she’s not jeering at our loss. But I still can’t hold her gaze.
I follow the rest of the guys toward the locker room, face burning with humiliation. I don’t want sympathy or pity. I’ve never felt so ill-prepared on the ice, never skated so badly. If that scout has any impression, it’s of my line fumbling an easy pass at the very start, setting us up for the cascade of failures in the rest of the period. I was benched for most of the game, and we played horribly when Iwason the ice. That one goal is my saving grace, and there’s no way it’s enough.
He has nothing to write home about. He’ll have no reason to return.
What was Danthinking? I smack a locker on my way past, but the hollow thud does nothing to burn off my anger and confusion.
Noah’s face is dark with disappointment. I’m sure he dreamed of a more glorious season as captain, but at least he has a path forward next year. If I were ever going to follow in his footsteps and break a stick, now would be the time.
“What did you do to Coach Dan? Piss in his cornflakes? Steal his girl?” Ryan claps me on the shoulder on his way to the shower. “Whatever, he’s not invited to my Black Friday party. We’ll bethe ones drowning our sorrows and setting new records for foosball dominance whilehe’seating soggy cereal.”
But even Ryan can’t turn this moment into a joke. His attempt at cheering me up unleashes a fire hose of frustration from the rest of the team, everyone wondering exactly the same thing. Brady grumbles about how his last year on the ice is no fun if we’re not winning; Patrick mumbles something about wishing I’d gotten some of his playing time. They know their best chance of winning is with me on the ice. This ridiculous “strategy” doesn’t just affect me—it affects us all.
At this rate, my career’s going to be over before it’s even begun. And it’s not even myfault.
I rip off my elbow pads and chest protector and take in a deep breath, unburdened for the first time in hours. But the freedom doesn’t last. There’s only so long I can dawdle in the locker room, avoiding the consequences waiting in the lobby. I reluctantly heave myself to my feet, grab my duffel, and head outside.
The lobby’s full of fans. Sympathetic girlfriends and boyfriends with bouquets, friends in tight huddles to recap the botched plays, parents with serious faces, teachers who’re smiling brightly as if they can gaslight us into thinkingwe played well, and that’s all that matters!
We didn’t, and it’s not.
All I want is to sink into a bath at home, stealing some of Lindsey’s ridiculous bubbly potions to soak my muscles and drown my sorrows. It’s not very stoic of me, but neither is crying, and that’s the runner-up tonight.
Instead I need to navigate this crowd and find my parents. I peer through bouquets of flowers, searching the partners’faces. Max is here waiting for Alex, and as soon as he sees him, his face lights up with pride. “Your first varsity game!” he cries. “You were amazing! I felt like I was watching the Briar boys!”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it would be kind of nice to have someone showing up for me like that who isn’t my parents. Someone who could be a buffer, wrap her arm around my waist and smile up at me and say,You’ll get’em next time, with such conviction there’s no doubting it.
For a second, the girl saying the words in my imagination has green eyes and dark, wavy hair.
But there’s no blue sweater to be seen. Obviously. I’m just delirious from a long, horrible game, anxious at the thought of the conversation to come, and all of that is channeling my thoughts of proving Harper wrong into something way less productive.
“Time to let myself be comforted,” Ryan says with a dramatic sigh, heading toward the Spirit Committee table with his arms outstretched. Sabrina rolls her eyes at him, but there are plenty of people wearing sympathetic expressions.
Then I’m standing in front of my family, and it’s too late to dream about a buffer.
Dad’s face is expressionless, hands clasped loosely behind him, forever an athlete listening to a coach. He’s wearing his old blue-and-yellow Wolverines windbreaker, a little tattered at the cuffs but still a perfect fit. He’d sooner die than throw it out. Seeing it usually gives me a jolt of motivation, but today it adds an extra weight to every limb.
Mom’s smiling in a tight, forced way. Her hair is curled, and she holds a small bouquet of roses, and thinking of herputting in all those tiny bits of effort makes me even more disappointed in myself.
Lindsey’s the first to speak. “Well, you really, uh… played a game.”
I shoot her a look that promises payback later. I’ve been keeping a log of all the times I’ve covered for her during a shift so she could sneak out to see Sara, and she doesnotwant that information falling into the wrong hands.
“Not your best,” Dad says.
I brace for more, but… that’s it. “I… yeah. Did you see my first goal, though?”
