Page 74 of Heart Check
It takes Alex and I just a split second to shift gears and head back to help with defense.
A split second too long.
Northview’s forwards pass the puck two, three, four, I lose track of how many times, they’re moving it so quickly and efficiently between them, and we’re playing catch-up, trying to figure out what they’re doing and how to stop them.
I swear Jack Petrov looks me dead in the eyes for a split second before he slams the puck into the top left corner of the net. Right past poor Sam.
2–0.
I’m frozen, ice water trickling down my spine.
They were ready. All their guys were in place, and they knew what to do.
Like we should’ve been. Could’ve been.
Dan calls a line change and we tumble back onto the bench, breathing heavily. I tear off my helmet to wipe away the sweat that’s been pouring down my forehead, and then I douse myself in water to cool off.
Alex slumps beside me, brow knit in frustration. Dan doesn’t say anything, but his disappointed frown makes me hunch into myself. Noah just rips off his helmet and rubs his hands through his hair, shrugging when I shoot him a look. A thousand words bubble up in my throat, but I choke them down, gritting my teeth around my mouthguard.
I can’t look back at the stands to see anyone’s reaction. Not the scout, not Red. Not Harper.
Not my dad. The thought of him up there, frowning, leaning forward as he evaluates our plays… I wince. I can practically hear his voice in my head. Probably because we’ve watched enough film of Northview before, because he’s prepped mefor Jack’s strengths, because he’s done his best to turn me into a machine of a player.
But all the training in the world isn’t going to win me this game. Not without my team beside me.
And right now, we couldn’t be further apart.
The locker room feels smaller than usual after the first period. Like there’s less air in here. No one even hooks their phone up to the sound system to blast pump-up music. Everyone’s quiet, but the air is heavy with our exhaustion and all our unspoken words. We’re down two goals already, and we’re only one period in. Honestly, we’reluckywe’re only down two goals—thankfully the rest of the lines held down the fort after the mess we made, keeping things from getting even worse.
We don’t have a chance in hell of saving this game. There goes everything I’ve been working toward this year—all the early practices and late-night weight-training sessions, the careful, protein-rich diet. The sacrifices for the hope of making it somewhere bigger.
I’m too stuck in self-pity to say anything to break the silence.
Ryan, the brave idiot, is the first to speak. He clears his throat until he’s sure he has everyone’s attention. “Noah. Alex was open for that shot.”
Our eyes meet for a split second across the locker room, and my chest swells with something unexpected. Ryan, the guy who always just wants to be there for the team. Who wants to have fun. Who has everyone’s back. Maybe someone like that is a better captain than Noah, whether he’s our most serious player or not.
Noah shrugs. “Sorry, man.” To Alex, he says, “I just couldn’t be confident you’d nail it, you know?”
Alex doesn’t say anything, just keeps his head bowed. My face burns with indignation for him. “He’s been working hard,” I blurt. “He nailed it in practice this week. What else do you need, Noah?”
Noah raises his eyebrows, shocked anyone is questioning him, and spreads his hands wide. “Listen, you know how it is. You have to make split-second decisions on the ice. Gotta trust your instincts.” He thumps his chest, and all I can see is Harper wrinkling her nose, calling him an ego-driven caveman. “If you’ve got it in your blood, you know. You get it, Dawson.”
But Noahdidn’tscore. He was wrong, and his talent wasn’t enough.
When I don’t say anything, Noah heads toward the door. As if this is settled, as if I’ve dropped my point.
But if I have anything to do with it, these next two periods are going to be a very different story than the first.
Coach Dan leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a frown behind his glasses, and when he catches my eye, my stomach drops. “Dawson,” he says. “Can I have a minute?”
I follow him out into the hall, bracing myself for another lecture. I’m playing a whole lot better than I did in our last practice, but obviously it’s still not enough or we’d be winning. It’s hard to shake the idea that the success of the game rests on my shoulders, for better or worse. I’m too used to my dad’s postgame analysis—you have to focus on yourself and your own skating, since that’s all you have control over—andRed’s midgame lectures. I’ve learned how to shake the critiques off, channel them into my playing. If Dan gives me the same, I can handle it.
Instead he says, “I want your opinion. Are today’s lines working?”
My mouth hangs open for a second before I gather myself again. “Why aren’t you asking Noah?”
“Because I know what Noah thinks.” He doesn’t break eye contact. “I want to know if you think he’s right. Should we change up our strategy? Lead with our best individual players?” His expression is solemn, earnest. Eyebrows furrowed, jaw set. “I’m not too proud to change a losing game. I trust your read on the guys, Dawson. If you say we go back to the old lines, we go back to the old lines.”
