Page 3 of Break Out

Cole and Hannah drop me at the entrance to the hotel, pulling away once I’m safely inside. The lobby is silent and empty except for the woman at the front desk, who wishes me a Happy New Year. On the elevator I check my phone and see that my message to Brody is still on delivered.

Guess he’s still busy with whatever kept him away from me at midnight.

Chapter two

Brody

May

The chiming of my phone startles me awake. I sit up, scrubbing a hand down my face, trying to orient myself.

My couch. I take a deep breath. I’m on my couch.

Netflix is mocking me with its “Are you still enjoying this show” message. How many episodes of Seinfeld did I sleep through? My back cracks as I grab my phone. I’m too old to fall asleep on the couch like this. I unlock it and see I’ve been re-added to the group chat that some of my teammates and, dare I say it–although I’ll never tell them this–friends started at the end of the season. I know they mean well, they’re worried about me, but I want to be left alone to wallow in my anger and frustration. The season didn’t end well for any of us but most especially for me.

I blame Caleb, my closest friend and Captain of the Storm, for the onslaught of messages. It was his idea that I befriend Hunter Rhodes, another forward and my linemate last season. Little did I know that it would mean I would become a de facto part of Hunter’s friend group that consists of Weston Reynolds, one of our defensemen, and Holt Abbott, the backup goalie. The group that is the source of all the text messages I’m getting.

Wes: Anyone up for a beach day?

Holt: Depends. When were you thinking?

Wes: Saturday in three weeks.

Hunter: Madison and I are in.

Hunter: Unless it’s a guys’ only beach day.

Wes: The more the merrier. Caleb? Cole? Brody?

With a groan, I exit out of the chat and drop my phone on the sofa without answering. Something I’ve been doing a lot lately.

I keep expecting one of them or, heaven forbid, all of them to show up at my door. I was a no-show at the end-of-season team events, and I know it’s only a matter of time before someone comes knocking.

Any other year I would have gone to Caleb’s end-of-the-year party. I would have jumped at the chance to hang out with my teammates, eat good food, drink some beer, swim in his pool, and maybe even take his boat out on the lake. All those things usually sound like a good time.

But not this year.

This year I skipped it.

Therein lies the reason why I keep getting re-added to this group chat. It’s why Caleb keeps texting me. Why Cole, another teammate and friend, has been calling me more often than usual. Although he’s not as insistent as the others because he’s got a newborn.

I couldn’t bring myself to go to the party after I was the reason we got eliminated from the playoffs. The reason our season ended the way it did. I know the other guys said they didn’t blame me. But the thing is, I blame myself. I’ve watched the game tape so many times I can see the play in my head when I close my eyes.

Me getting a pass from Hunter.

Being in the circle near the net. The place I like to shoot from. The place I never miss from.

Shooting.

And missing.

A shot I’ve made hundreds of times—maybe even a thousand—in my fifteen-year career.

Pings off the goal post as the buzzer sounds ending the game.

I even had a clear shooting lane.

And I missed it.