The coaches entered the room, and we looked up wearily. I wasn’t interested in listening to a speech on how we had next year. I’d wanted it this year. Next year was a long way from now. Of course, Coop, Ice, and Gorst gave us all a rah-rah speech. Even Mr. Parker came into the room and told us how proud he was of us. Did that make me feel better? Not one damn fucking bit.

I ran every game over and over in my mind, obsessing over things I should’ve done better, things I messed up, places where I didn’t do enough. I let my team down. We each let our team down. Hockey was a team sport, and as hard as we tried to overcome our misfortunes, our best wasn’t good enough.

I hated not being good enough.

We’d been the defending champions, and we were knocked out in the first four games of the playoffs.

That didn’t just sting. It hurt like a knife driven deep in my chest and twisted. The knife gutted me.

I wasn’t in any mood to talk to anyone. All I wanted was to go home and lick my wounds.

My cell phone beeped as I walked toward my vehicle.

Geneva: Do you want to commiserate later? I have a few hours of work to do.

Me: Sorry, not good company. Catch up with you tomorrow?

Geneva: Okay.

I read more into that one-word answer than necessary, but I’d probably hurt her feelings, like I didn’t have enough weighing me down. I got in my car and left the parking garage.

I drove aimlessly for an hour until the adrenaline and sorrow wore off and left me empty except for exhaustion. Back to the condo I went.

I was in a foul mood and inconsolable. I needed to be left alone to lick my wounds.

Steele wasn’t around. The place was empty, almost eerie in its silence.

I stripped down to my underwear and crawled between the cool sheets, certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and that was the last thing I remembered.

~~Geneva~~

“He’s in a mood. I’m worried about him,” I said as I followed Steele to the condo elevator.

“We’re all in a mood, Gen.”

“Well, thanks for answering my text and meeting me here. I hope I didn’t cut into your plans.” Since Axel had refused to answer any of my calls or texts, I’d texted Steele earlier. He’d been out, and he’d sounded drunk, but he’d agreed to call it a night and come home so we could check on Axel.

I smelled the alcohol on Steele’s breath. He was a Puck Brother, after all, and three of their numbers had been booted from the team for a barroom brawl in true Puck Brother fashion. I guess he was carrying on the tradition, minus the suspension. Straight-arrow Steele would never do anything that would get him suspended from the team.

“Have you been drinking away your sorrows?”