Page 11 of The E.M.M.A. Effect
The ref dropped the puck. In that suspended moment, the world reduced to a single black disk. Brandon exploded into action, winning the draw with a lightning flick, and firing to Gale on the wing. As he reached for the pass, his stick turned traitor. The puck skipped over his blade, a fumble in slow motion, sliding right to a Furies D-man.
“Shit!” Brandon’s frustrated growl cut through the crowd’s collective groan.
Gale pivoted hard, racing to back-check, trying to shake it off. His mind, though? Total fucking mutiny.You’re letting everyone down, the voice in his head hissed.Again.
The Furies’ transition game was quick. Their winger streakedin on a partial breakaway, dekeing forehand-backhand. Tuck Taylor, the Regals’ goalie, sprawled across the crease, just getting a toe on it. The save was highway robbery, but Tuck slammed his stick against the post. “Wake up!” he shouted.
The goalie’s directive was clear: he needed to step up, and now. The rink shrunk around Gale, his jersey suddenly too tight, constricting his chest. His lungs burned as if filled with fiberglass. The puck, the other players, even the thunderous home crowd all blurred into a dizzying whirl of motion and noise. His body screamed for more oxygen, but each shallow inhale only intensified the crushing terror.
His next shift only fed the darkness. Every move felt wrong, his body betraying him as he lost another battle along the boards. When the Furies broke away, he desperately tried to chase, but his legs wouldn’t fucking move. Only Tuck’s quick reflexes saved them from another goal. His lungs burned raw with each ragged breath, panic clawing up his throat as that voice in his head grew louder, drowning out even the roar of the crowd, pumping in time with the blood in his ears.Liability. Liability. Liability.
By his third shift, Gale was cracking. What used to feel as natural as breathing now felt like drowning. He could only watch helplessly as the Furies turned his error into a perfect play. When the puck hit the back of the net, bitter jeers filled the arena.
1–0 Furies.
Skating back to the bench, Gale felt Coach’s eyes burning a hole in his back. He slumped onto the boards, waiting for his next shift. But the tap never came. As the clock wound down on the second period, Gale sat there, his legs going numb, watching his teammates try to generate something.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, fingers twitching on his stick, body aching to be out there. Just one more chance. That’s all he needed. One goddamn shift to prove he wasn’t completely useless.But then Brandon threaded a perfect pass to Orlenko, who found Comeau waiting in the slot. He scored clean before the Furies’ goalie could react.
The arena erupted: 1–1.
The boys went nuts on the bench, but Gale felt like he was watching from the nosebleeds as the knot tightened in his gut. They’re better off without me, he thought. If we pull this off, it’ll be in spite of me, not because of me.
The goal energized the team. Suddenly, the Regals were forechecking aggressively and winning every loose-puck battle. With thirty seconds left in the period, they drew a penalty. Coach sent out the power play unit, and they capitalized. A series of quick passes left the Furies’ penalty kill scrambling, and Comeau buried it again with two seconds left on the clock.
2–1 Regals.
After, Gale took his time in the locker room, his shoulders heavy from the weight of the eighteen thousand disappointed faces. They’d won, buthelost. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The acrid stench of it filled his nostrils, intertwining with the tang of refrigeration chemicals that always lingered in the arena. He’d tried to give his all tonight, and had fallen far short.
His fingers trembled as he ran them through his sweat-damp hair. How had it come to this? Just a few years ago, they’d called him the golden boy, the future of the NHL. Now, the only gold he saw was in his memories, tarnished by time and shattered expectations.
His mind raced to tomorrow’s headlines, to how many more chances he’d get before—his throat closed around the thought. Coach strode in, Regals-blue tie askew, salt-and-pepper hair mussed from a game’s worth of stress. That look on his face made Gale feel like a kid getting called to the principal’s office.
“Knight.” Coach’s voice was gruff, controlled. “My office. Now.”
Fuck.He followed Coach down the hall, each step feeling heavier than the last, and dropped into a chair as the door clicked shut behind them.
“What’s left to say? You pulled me off. Message received, loud and clear.” Gale didn’t want to say Comeau and Brandon were the favorites now. It made him look small, and he was plenty small enough.
Coach sighed, sitting across from him. He took off his wire glasses and slipped them into his suit coat’s inner pocket. “Look at me, son.”
Gale used to like it when Coach called him that. The first year he was on the team, sometimes he wished Coachhadbeen his dad, rather than Jim Knight. He and his pop had even been on the same team back in the day. He wasn’t sure if they were friendly as Coach never mentioned him. And Dad—well, Dad’s friends had all been carefully curated: those who’d enable his partying and keep the loans coming. No room for actual friendship in that equation.
Reluctantly, Gale raised his head.
“What the fuck happened out there?” Coach asked, his tone softer than during game time, but no less intense.
“Same as always lately.” Gale shrugged, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “I sucked. Plain and simple. Couldn’t shoot, couldn’t pass, couldn’t create a single decent play. I was a liability.”
Coach nodded slowly. “And why do you think this keeps happening?”
“I don’t know,” Gale snapped, frustration seeping into his voice. “Maybe I’m not cut out for it anymore. Hell, maybe I never was, and everyone’s finally seeing through the hype.”
“I’ve known you for how long now, five years?” Coach’s eyes narrowed. “How is it that I’m only now realizing you might have a room-temperature IQ?”
Gale blinked. “What?”
“Stop thinking, it’s clearly not doing you any favors,” Coach continued, not waiting for an answer. “I don’t collect a paycheck to think about things. I get paid to know. And you’re scared. You’ve gotten yourself so damn terrified of not living up to expectations that you’re freezing out there.”
