And the goalie scooped it up in his glove.
Shit.
Sawing breath until his lungs ached, Drew skated down the ice toward his own goal. They were only down one goal and there was still time left in the third period. They could pull this game out against Philadelphia, at least tie it up and then make a comeback. All they had to do was score. They were so damn close Drew could taste it.
But in order to do that, they needed the puck at the other end of the ice. Kozlow, their best defender, shifted and went after it, slamming the Philadelphia forward against the boards. Drew wanted, needed desperately, to be in the middle of that, but he stayed in position, moving fast when Kozlow wrestled the puck away and shot it down the ice.
Trick was there to take it and make the turn and dashed, time moving too fast for Drew’s liking. He knew they were no more than a minute or two from the end of the game. If they tied, they’d go to overtime.
Drew took the pass from Trick and got an elbow to the neck from the defender. He fought for it, but another defender swooped it up and took it.
Shit. He dug in his skates and went after him, but Kozlow and Ebers were there.
It went back and forth like this for what seemed like an eternity, with the defense holding on, keeping Philadelphia from scoring, while the offense couldn’t get the damned puck into the net.
And when the buzzer sounded signaling the end of the game, it was the worst damned sound Drew had ever heard.
They’d lost by one fucking goal. He’d have rather gotten his ass kicked by a blowout than to lose by one goal. They’d been close so many times, but they just hadn’t been able to muster up enough offense to get the job done.
Again.
They had another road game before heading home, and he hoped to God they could pull out a win on that one, because things weren’t looking good for the team otherwise.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He’d gone out with the guys after the game, but none of them were in the mood to do much talking or partying. They all headed back to their rooms early.
Drew grabbed the remote to watch television, but there was really nothing on he wanted to watch.
He grabbed his phone to call Carolina, but it was late, and he didn’t want to keep her up. The clock was ticking on Fashion Week, and he knew she was probably putting in a lot of long hours.
Instead, he sent her a text message saying he was going to bed early and he’d talk to her when he got to Chicago tomorrow.
Where he had another road game.
Another opportunity.
Or another chance to lose on the road.
No. He pulled his fingers through his hair and got up off the bed, determined to think positively. He stared out the window at the snowy Philadelphia night, feeling the chill all the way through to his bones.
They couldn’t lose every fucking road game this season. At some point, they’d figure out what the cause was and turn it around, win on the road, and this would all be a distant memory.
An unpleasant, distant memory.
Shivering, he climbed back into bed and found some lame old movie on TV. Anything with sound so he wouldn’t feel so alone right now. He stared over at his phone. No return text from Carolina, which meant she was either busy working, or already asleep.
He wanted to call her, to hear the warmth of her voice in his ear. He wanted her to tell him it was all going to be all right.
But she couldn’t tell him that, could she? Because she didn’t control his destiny. Only he did. Only he—and his team—could pull this shit hole of a season out of the crapper, and make it right.