Page 2 of Golden Goal

I’m broken.

Even the good doctor can’t fix what’s wrong with me.

I force myself to break eye contact with her.

“Well, go Storm. I’ll let you get back to your after-practice routines.” She chuckles before spinning on her heel and heading toward the door.

“Be nice to her,” Dr. Walt says, giving us all a pointed look before turning and following her out of the room.

“She’s pretty,” Sebastian, one of the defenders we acquired over the summer, says, leaning closer to us. “Don’t you think, Abbott?” he asks in his thick British accent.

I grunt and turn back to my locker to finish undressing. I take an extra-long shower, mostly so I can avoid the chit chat and so my friends don’t try to guilt-trip me into agreeing to hang out or do something with them. When I finally get out of the shower, the only one left in the locker room is our backup goalie, and he’s as talkative as I am. I wish the other guys understood what he does—I don’t want to talk.

Twenty minutes later, I’m letting myself into my apartment, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter, and heading over to the fridge to grab something to drink.

I take my glass of water into the living room and sink down onto my worn dark-brown leather couch, the one Kat hated and tried to get rid of countless times. The one piece of furniture I fought her on changing. A fight I luckily won. Propping my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, I survey the room. I really need to get rid of the boxes stacked in the corner filled with all the shit Kat bought for my apartment because she said it was “boring” and needed some character. I make a mental note to put them in my truck and take them somewhere to donate so I don’t have to see them anymore.

“Character my ass,” I mutter as I turn the television on and resume the James Bond movie I was watching last night.

The locker room is silent. Frustration radiates off everyone, myself included, at how badly we played tonight against the Ravens. No one is talking and joking the way they normally do. A few grumbles and sighs are all that’s audible. I’m sitting on the bench, pulling off my gear, when Coach Weaver walks in.

“What the fuck happened out there tonight?” he barks, looking around the room. “You weren’t playing like a fucking team. You were playing like a bunch of guys who’d never spent a day on the ice together.”

I heave out a breath and stare at the ground. He’s right. Last season was rough after Brody, our top scoring forward, and Aleksi, our starting goalie, retired, but we did alright. We picked up Elias from the Nashville Fury to fill Brody’s spot, and I stepped up as the starting goalie. We didn’t make it to the finals, but we at least made it to the second round of the playoffs.

This past off-season, Caleb, our captain and another star forward, retired, and our team just isn’t the same.

Last week our other alternate captain got injured and is out for the season.

Shots that would normally be easy for me to block, aren’t. I’ve let in so many stupid goals, like the two in the last five minutes of the second period of the game we just played. It’s as if my brain and body aren’t in sync anymore.

Things are falling to shit.

We’re on a five-game losing streak, and we’re sitting dead last in our division. We’ve got plenty of time to turn the sinking ship around since it’s only October, but still. If we can’t figure things out soon, we’ll keep falling further and further behind.

No one speaks, and Coach says, “get some rest tonight. I’ll see you at morning skate.” He turns and stalks out of the locker room to do press.

The room is even more silent after he leaves, if that’s even possible. Guys quickly undress.

“What are we going to do?” Hunter finally asks.

I lift a shoulder in a half shrug. How the hell should I know what to do? I’ve got my own problems to contend with. It’s not like I’m much help right now.

“Having no captain isn’t helping,” Elias says from the other side of Hunter.

“Yeah,” Hunter agrees, pulling off his jersey and pads. “I don’t understand why they haven’t named one. It would definitely help at least with team morale.”

“We may not have anyone wearing the C on their sweater, but we need someone to step up and lead.” Elias stares pointedly at his brother.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hunter asks, turning to Elias. “It was your idea. You were an alternate captain for the Fury. All you, E.” He tips his chin at him.

Elias shakes his head. “It’s your team, Hunt. The guys know and respect you more than me. Right, Wes? Right, Holt?”

Hunter focuses his attention on Wes for a second before turning to me.

I study my friend, noting the fear in his eyes, but I know that deep down he wants this. He might never say it out loud, but I know Hunter. I know it would mean the world to him to be the next captain of the Storm. He doesn’t think they’ll ever give it to him—he still sees himself as the rookie who isn’t sure if he belongs in the NHL. Even with a Stanley Cup under his belt. But I see it. I peek over at Elias, and based on the face he’s making, I think he sees it too.

Before I can answer the question, Wes pipes up. “I agree with E. We need a leader. Caleb was the glue of this team, and without him, we’re falling apart.”