Page 37 of Nowhere to Hide
Mason taps my shin pad with his stick. “Unlucky.”
I don’t look at him.
With minutes ticking down, we start to push, desperate now. Coach Franklin waves me over the boards out of rotation twice. I don’t say no, because all game, every time the structure has broken it has been around Gavin’s pairing, and the coaches have noticed.
Then, with six minutes left, somebody tips a point shot through the goalie’s pads — Niko, I think, but it’s impossible to tell in the mess — and suddenly it’s one-one and the student section comes alive.
For four or five shifts after that, the energy is close to right, close to what it should’ve been from the start, and I let myself believe the game might have a different ending. But with two minutes left, Gavin takes a lazy hooking penalty, the kind that saysI’m not here anymore.
The ref’s arm goes up, the arena groans, and Gavin skates to the box without looking at anyone on the bench. North Vale State’s power play is clinical, and they score with ninety seconds left.
Two-one.
Coach pulls Holloway, our goalie, with a minute left. It’s a long shot, but I win a board battle and find a seam. Luca reads it, puts the puck on my tape, and I one-time it clean. The shot is going in?—
Until a North Vale State D-man dives and blocks it with his ribs.
Buzzer.
I fall to the ice, exhausted, and maybe I’m radiating something because nobody comes near me for a second. And when I climb to my feet, I move through the handshake linewithout seeing a single face, jaw locked, saying the things you say after a game.
We shuffle to the locker room, where Coach stands in the middle of the floor with his hands in his pockets and lets the silence do the work. Helmets come off. Tape gets cut. Somewhere in the back row a stick hits a stall and nobody flinches.
I sit, but I don’t take my gear off.
Gavin is the first one out. His coat is on before half the guys have unlaced their skates, and then he’s out the door. It swings shut behind him, and somebody — I don’t see who — lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh.
The other guys go in twos and threes. Seb is the last one in with me, and when he heads for the showers, his phone lights up on the stall between us. I don’t mean to look, but I catch the name.
Ivy.
I let it sit. I don’t have the room for it tonight.
Seb comes back, towel around his waist, and reads whatever’s on the screen. Something crosses his face — almost a smile, gone before it can settle — then he drops the phone in his bag without answering.
Then he bumps my shoulder. “Go home.”
And he’s gone.
Coach Franklin comes through on his way to the video room, suit jacket over one arm, and stops when he sees I’m still in my gear. He gives me the look he gave the bench all night, like he’s taking inventory.
“Anything I need to know about the room?” he says.
There are three safe answers: we’re fine, we’ll regroup, ask Gavin.
I’m too tired to pick one fast enough, so I just shake my head.
“You and Cross,” he says, into the gap. “Problem?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t look away, either.
Franklin nods slowly, like I’ve confirmed something for him. “Keep it off my ice.”
Then he’s gone, too.
I stay in my gear, staring at the Halden crest on the wall opposite my stall, feeling spent. I keep my eyes on it because they need somewhere to be, and the list in my head is already getting longer.
Eventually, I take my gear off. Skates first, untied wet eyelet by wet eyelet, then pads and jersey. If the stink coming off my equipment is any indication, I worked my ass off tonight. Small consolation.
