Bailey: Do you still want to come to the game with us?
Sera: Yep. What time?
Bailey: Shiv and I can pick you up at 6:30.
When they pull up to get me in Siobhan’s car, I’m oddly nervous. Not having a matching jersey like they both do makes me feel like the odd one out. I should have stolen some of Chase’s Falcons gear, but it’s too late now. The Falcons beanie I stole from Tyler will have to suffice. It’ll also help keep me warm because Bailey tells me Northview Arena is freezing.
Traffic is a nightmare as we draw closer to the venue, and parking is even worse. When we step inside, it’s swarming with people. It might sound silly, but I’d forgotten how big of a deal college hockey is at some schools. It wasn’t much of a thing at ASU. At Boyd, hockey players are full-on celebrities.
Because a hockey game isn’t a hockey game without snacks, we grab popcorn, candy, and drinks at the concession before pushing through the crowd to our seats. We’re early enough to catch the end of warm-ups, and a little buzz of excitement runs through me when I spot Tyler standing in front of the net as the guys take practice shots on him. I’m not sure whether he’s happy I’m here or not. It was a little hard to get a read on his reaction when I told him I was coming.
The arena, like Bailey warned me ahead of time, is freaking freezing. It may even be colder than it is outside. Thankfully, I wore extra layers beneath my clothes, including one of the warmest wool sweaters I own.
“Who are they playing tonight again?” I ask, turning to face the girls. Bailey is in the middle of us, and Siobhan is seated on her other side.
Bailey makes a face as she reaches for another hand of popcorn. “Callingwood. My school.”
“Oh, shit. Is that awkward for you? Because your brother…？” Who would I cheer for if Chase and Tyler were on opposite sides, anyway? Tough call. Chase is my brother and all, but he can be a real pain in the ass.
“A little.” She shrugs. “I’m used to it by now. It’s sort of a win-win. Or I guess it’s lose-lose, depending how you look at it.”
“Boyd versus Callingwood games are always bloodbaths,” Shiv chimes in. “Expect a lot of penalties, especially from your brother.”
Chase takes a lot of penalties to begin with, so that’s really saying something.
Siobhan isn’t wrong. The game is a total barn burner. High scoring, high penalty minutes, and high drama on the ice. It’s clear the teams hate each other, as evidenced by the constant sneaky shots and cheap jabs they both keep taking at one another. I even catch some things directed at Tyler, which is considered extra dirty as far as hockey code goes. He gets annoyed enough to slash one guy in return, but the officials seem to miss it.
Halfway in, the score is tied three-three. Even at a distance, I can tell Tyler’s upset. His body language makes that much clear. It isn’t solely his doing; there are a lot of factors at play. Both teams are playing sloppy, which includes nonexistent defense, and the goalies are being hung out to dry. Tyler is a phenomenal goalie, and he’s having an off night.
The game takes an even worse turn after the third period starts. Callingwood scores again, but it gets called back due to goalie interference. Somehow, I don’t think that’s of any comfort to Tyler. Knowing him, he’s beating himself up for letting another puck get by.
“He’s getting hammered out there,” I say, watching him reset his position between the posts. It’s incredibly hard to watch. I’ve never seen things from the goalie’s perspective the way I do now. Every time a shot slips past him, I feel a little sick.
“Do you think they’ll pull Ty?” Siobhan tears open a package of Skittles, offering us some.
Bailey shakes her head, her gaze still glued to the play. “No.”
“Probably not,” I reply at the same time.
Though I’m not sure which is worse: getting pulled or getting lit up like he is right now.
Siobhan’s forehead creases. “Really? He’s let in a lot of goals. I mean, I love the guy, but mathematically speaking.”
“So has the other goalie,” Bailey explains. “When the score is close like this, coaches usually let it ride.”
I squint, leaning forward. “What the hell is Chase doing?”
My brother just missed the most basic pass imaginable. None of the team is showing up well tonight. It’s frustrating for me, and I’m not even on the ice. I can only imagine how Tyler feels right now.
As the third period winds to a close, the score is tied five-five, and we’re sitting on the edgesof our seats. If it ends in a tie, it goes into sudden-death overtime. And if that carries on long enough, it goes into a shootout—which is probably one of the highest-pressure scenarios imaginable for a goalie.
The play carries down to our side of the net, and there’s a ton of traffic in front. I crane my head, trying to see where the puck is.
“Can you see?” I ask. “I see Dallas, but some guy is blocking Tyler.”
“Why isn’t their defense clearing the net?” Bailey gestures with her drink. “They’re letting Callingwood stand there cherry picking.”
The fun part about Bailey is she knows as much, if not more about hockey than the guys. Since she’s invested in both teams tonight, we’ve been getting a detailed running commentary the entire time. It’s highly entertaining. For someone who’s largely soft-spoken and reserved, hockey really gets her fired up.
Our attention stays fixed on our net, waiting to see if Boyd clears the puck. There’s a huge commotion out front, blocking Tyler from my line of sight, and the buzzer sounds to signify another goal.
Bailey stands up, her eyes darting between the scoreboard and the ice. “What? That was goalie interference again. And they’re just going to let it go?”
“I couldn’t see what happened,” I admit, hoping she’s right. Maybe it would be some small consolation for him, even if it wasn’t called.
My stomach aches as Callingwood skates off to their end, exchanging fist-bumps and hollering with excitement. Boyd’s team surrounds the net to give Tyler props, but the mood is decidedly somber.
More than anything, I want to hug him right now, and I can’t.
CHAPTER 26
ALL THE LITTLE PIECES
TYLER
Sometimes I think losing by one goal is worse than a blowout. If I’d just played a little better, been more on my game, and stopped that one fucking shot…
The rest of the team admittedly played like shit tonight, but even that feels like my fault. Letting in that initial goal so early in the first period shook our morale and left us playing catch up for the rest of the game. For all my talk about being able to shake off bad losses, it’s a lot harder to do when one rests squarely on my shoulders.
Sitting on my bed, I open the game tape from tonight on my phone and cue up all the goals I let in from start to finish. Easy to do when I know exactly what time each of them was scored. It happens every time I let a puck slip past me. The numbers on the clock are seared into my brain.
One or two of tonight’s goals could be chalked up to bad luck, and there’s a third I’ll give myself a pass on because it was a shot anyone would’ve struggled to stop, but the other three are the result of definite errors on my part. Shrinking down instead of holding my form, thereby creating more openings for the other team to target. Staying too far back into the crease when I should’ve been cutting down the angle. In short, not playing well enough.