One Last Shot:  A fictional story set in a fictional world.

Prologue

     To a casual observer it would look like I am staring at the Wolfpack logo on the floor in front of me but in reality I am currently not looking at anything in particular. I have what middle twentieth century reporters would refer to as the “thousand yard stare”. It is a term delved from soldiers suffering from the horrors of World War II.  The idea that what happened just happened to me is equivalent to the atrocities a conflict like that brought forth is of course ludicrous. But gut-wrenching can cause that stare to any person.
    And I just got gut-wrenched. Again.
    I gain my focus back and scan the faces around the locker room. I see some with the same look I just held, other players with their head in their hands, a few are slumped against the wall. Even Havlicek looks crushed and has wiped away a few tears. Only a few of them have even bothered to take off their sweaters. It is not just the players either. The trainers, the medical staff, our coaches and the management are all currently here and are all in various states of disbelief.
    We were up with two goals with more than six minutes to go. We didn’t even make it to overtime.
    That first score they made to put them within one was a total fluke. One of those goals that you shrug off because it was basically a couple of lucky bounces. A blind pass from the corner deflected upwards, off of a player’s rump, hit a skate and went in.  Havlicek didn’t even see it. Hell, I think the only person on the ice who first saw it go in was the ref, it took everyone else a few seconds to realize what had happened.
    That second goal that tied it was just piss poor on our part. I am not even blaming just my teammates, I was right there on the ice with them.  In our end when the puck rolled up the boards I made a rookie mistake. No, I made a youth hockey mistake. Something every twelve year old winger is taught not to do. I waited for it to come for me instead of moving towards it. Steelhawks defenseman Nyberg stepped around me grabbed the puck and fired a wrister on net. It was a nice mid-high shot and Havlicek dropped to his pads to get the shot.  It got tipped at some point but he was still able to track it and make a nice stop by shrugging his body up, but he was unable to gather the puck into himself to stop play and it dropped right in front of him.  Nobody on our team picked up the rebound or any of the opposing players near the net. 
    Appleson, the league’s leading goal scorer, picked up the puck, made a quick move to try have more empty space to shoot at but Havlicek read it well and made another save. And we all just sort of stood around, watching our goalkeeper while we acted like spectators who just happened to be on the ice.  The speed of the play made it difficult to prevent another rebound and Appleson scooped it up. He faked a shot and Havlicek bought it; instead Appleson rifled the puck across to the other side of the crease to his streaking teammate, Quackenbush, who tied the game with a swift, clean one-timer.
    And the ending. Oh sweet mercy, the ending. It will haunt my dreams for at least the next summer if not my entire life.
    With just twenty-some seconds left on the clock the Steelhawks were breaking out of their zone. Nyberg was in control of the puck and just as he moved across the Steelhawk’s blue line he attempted a pass to his fellow defenseman, Cattersil. I read the play perfectly The press referred to it as my signature move, something a coach from my youth play called “bursting.” As everyone else moved in the direction of our net I would sort of move sideways a bit and use an opponent to shield myself a bit from the view of the puck carrier.  When I thought the timing was right I would “burst” out and intercept the cross ice pass usually giving me a right opportunity to score. It did not always work but it did this time.
    I left the two Steelhawks’ defenders flatfooted for the split second I needed to get a clean breakaway.
    When you watch a sporting event like hockey you will hear the announcers talk about what the player was thinking. That’s poppycock;  hockey is too fast paced for most thinking. You react more than you ever think.  A player with nothing between him and the enemy goalkeeper while opponents are right behind him doesn’t have time to think.  It takes less than two seconds to get from where I intercepted the puck to get to the goal. There are no thoughts emanating from my brain. The hometown crowd has leapt to their feet, their roar deafening but I do not see or hear any of it as the distance between me and Steelhawks’ netminder Kivipelto closes rapidly.
    I deke like I am going to bring the puck across the front of myself and attempt a backhander on Kivipelto’s glove side. He buys it hook, line, and sinker.  Instead I make a quick move to my left and launch a hard wrister high into the area between me and the void created by him moving in the wrong direction.
    But Kivipelto hasn’t won the McBride trophy for best goalie three times for just being a Finnish goalie. He extends his right arm out as far he can in a desperate attempt to get his stick in the way. The shaft makes just enough contact with the puck enough to tip it up. It loudly clanks off the crossbar and ricochets right out in front. My momentum has carried me in the direction away from where the puck ends up so I am just out of reach. Nyberg is right there and reacts immediately by ratcheting a bullet into the corner to get it away from the front of the net as my teammates are barreling in.
    Unfortunately, one of those teammates is the speedy but sometimes overeager defenseman, Shaw.  The Steelhawks’ other defenseman, Cattersil, is still going full tilt and makes it to the corner before anyone else. He doesn’t hesitate for a second and fires a laser pass up the ice to Appleson, who has immediately reversed direction along with his wingmate Quackenbush giving them a two-on-one. They rush down the ice. The crowd is still on their feet but the roar has changed to one of fear.
    It turns to anguish just a few seconds later. Two beautiful passes inside the blue line, the first beating our sprawling defender by going maybe a millimeter over his stick. Havlicek moves across to make a play but Quackenbush returns the pass back quicker than the human eye can follow and Appleson puts it in through the now vacated area of the crease. Havlicek, bless him, does everything he can to try and get a piece of it but his efforts are in vain and the net puffs out as the light behind rings red, giving the Steelhawks the lead.
    We don’t even get a shot on the net in the remaining fourteen seconds. We lose game seven of the Eastern Conference Finals and a chance to play what is considered a weak Panthers team) that probably has no business being in the finals, although to be fair it is due to significant injuries to their best players.  Weak enough that seven days from now the Hamilton team will take home the Challenge Cup with four straight victories.
    Should I have finished my move right and gone to my backhand? Maybe I could’ve gone five-hole. Was my actual shot too high? I meant to make it a little lower but things were fast, but I am a pro and the puck should go where I want it to go. I should have scored and ended things right there. Will that decision be the last thread what defines my failure to win the Cup?
    Twenty seasons. Eighteen playoff appearances. Nine conference finals. Four finals.  Zero Cups. No athlete wants their legacy to be “One of the best but couldn’t win the big one, ” me included. Sure, during an interview I will express disappointment but wax poetic about how it is in honor to make it this far and how lucky I am to get paid to do something I love, but in the end I don’t believe any of that either. I want to win it all. Raise my middle finger to the naysayers. Make sure that no one can say I was not one of the best because I never got to lift the Cup.
    I put my hands on my face and rub my temple for a second before running my hands through my hair. Well, what is left of it anyways. Age and stress has taken most of it.  I take another look around the room before I slowly stand up and this draws everyones attention to me.  I have worn the C for five years now, the A for six before it. I’ve been here through three owners, four presidents, five general managers and four coaches. I am the constant of the last two decades, the face of this team and I need to give my flock some reassurance.
    I take a deep breath before I begin. “First off, a few of you already apologized to me.  While I appreciate the gesture, not a single person in this room needs to apologize for anything. Nobody has let me or anyone else on this team down. I know not a one of you left anything on the bench.” They are looking at me, despondent. Does my little speech even matter? “Some of you have been here before. Some of you haven’t. I will tell you this. It hurts. And nothing I or anyone else says will make it better. I am not going to lie you to you and tell you the lies people used to tell me about how it will be okay or you should be proud of yourselves and you will get them next year or how you will learn from this and be a better player or any other cockamamie life lesson bullshit that none of you want to hear anyway. “
    I let that all sink in for a second as I exhale, slumping a little bit. “We played hard. We played hurt. There are going to be days you wonder where you went wrong. You’ll curse that nagging ankle for slowing you down just enough. Days where you think to yourself we were the better team, how did we lose to them?  I am going to tell you right now, let that shit go.  It doesn’t matter because it’s done. You can’t change it.
“It’s going take time. You will feel better, I promise. But for now feel free to mourn this. Feel free to be disappointed, sad, or even angry. Don’t let anyone tell you that isn’t okay because it is.” There is a caveat that comes with this, one I learned the hard way. “Just remember to not take it out on friends and family. They will be there for you and you will need them. And as much you can sulk about this, don’t lie and bed all day like a forlorn teenager after a breakup. Go do stuff. Go out with your friends. See your family. Distract yourself from today it will slowly fade away to a buzz in the background before next year starts and it fades all together.”
    I pause again, looking at every one of them. “I fucking love everybody in this room and don’t forget it. You all have my number, you call me anytime you need me, I don’t care if it’s tomorrow, next week, next year or ten years from now. I will never be angry if you call me but I will be if you don’t.”
    I sit down, some of them nod a thanks towards me. They look a little better, but not much. I look over at Barber expectingly to see if he wants to say anything but he just gives an almost imperceptible head shake.
    Coach LaRue, general manager Dishman, and team president Fallsome all give their speeches, but they make them quick.  They look as tired and spent as anyone on the team. Maybe they were not on the ice with us but they have worked hard on making this team the success that it is. Well, almost success, anyways.

    About thirty minutes later, after a shower and a change into after game attire, I am sitting at a table with a microphone in front of me, Barber sits beside me in a similar set up. The reporters had asked for Havlicek, but our PR specialist ixnayed that. He is not even old enough to drink legally here, never mind try and navigate questions from the sometimes brutal local media. I am irked they asked as well. I look around the room wondering who it was. Most of the reporters in here are good people, but there are definitely a half dozen I wouldn’t miss if they got shipped out to cover games in Des Moines.
    Just as the press conference starts, I speak before any of the reporters can ask a question. “Just wanted to make something clear before we begin. I will not be speaking about my future plans at all tonight. Any questions about that will be met with a ‘No comment.’” I gesture to indicate we are ready for questions.
    Bob Beeds is the first to ask. He’s been in the business longer than anybody else in the room. He’s a great guy and well respected by everybody including me. “How are you doing?” is all he asks.
    I actually give a short laugh at this, and then sigh. “I think the word is tired, Bob. I’m tired. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.” Bob and several others nod knowingly.
    Another reporter, Jillian Driscoll from , asks how we felt about Havlicek’s play. She is a class act, she is not trying to bait either of us. I let Barber take this one. “For a rookie who literally got called up with two weeks to go before the playoffs we couldn’t have asked for a better performance.” Barber likes to talk with hands. “Honestly, I don’t think we win game five without him. Hell, I don’t think we would’ve gotten past the North Stars without him. He stole some of those games. Future’s bright.”
    Then the question I have been waiting for is asked at me, and of course it is Alan Parker from Sports Central 101.1. Pretty sure he is the dumbass that asked for Havlicek to be here.  “Do you think you could’ve done something different on that breakaway?” I might’ve answered this question more diplomatically a few seasons ago, but I really don’t like Parker or his shitty radio show, I’m twenty seasons in, and I just loss another huge game, so I go glib for such an asinine question.
    “Well, there many things I could’ve done but I decided to make a move I knew he would stop. I need to keep the game exciting for your show.” A bunch of the other reporters chuckle at my response. A good portion of them cannot stand Parker either.
    Parker turns red. “You don’t think you owe an honest answer to your fans?” he retorts.
    Before I can answer, Barber juts in, angrily. “Are you f-,” he closes his eys and catches himself before swearing. “-kidding me? What was he supposed to do, twirl around with some video game move or something?” I think he is ready to swear again, but he holds it in like the professional he has become. Although his hands are flying. “Kivipelto is probably the best goalie on the planet and you want to talk about the move he made?”
    Parker is beet red now. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he spits angrily.
    This doesn’t faze Barber in the least. “You ask stupid questions of any of my teammates your going to get my answer first.” Damn, I have never seen Barber this fired up at a press conference.” I am sure your armchair quarterback listeners will call in and tell you what they would have done tomorrow morning while they are drinking their Dunks on the way to work.” I wince at this line as that is not going to play well, especially with some of the some of the hardcore fandom who do exactly just that.
    I hold my hands up palm out before anyone can say anything else. “Look, every one of the people in this room are as invested in this team as anyone else.” I look at Parker, he is still red but he let’s me continue. “I don’t think about what move I am going to make, I just do it. Ask any player in the league and they will tell you the same thing. If I could go back in time and do something different, of course I would.” I nod towards the back of the room. “But Doc Brown and Marty McFly aren’t coming through that door. I thought I had it. I thought we had it.” I shrug.
    Parker looks a bit less angry, but he is still staring daggers.  Despite the usual protocol of another reporter asking the next question he asks it. “Then do you think you were the better team?”
    I think about what I had just said and decide that even though this is usually a loaded question, here it might be warranted. This is always a question you need to tread carefully on.  “Do I think we should have beaten them? Yeah, I do.” I feel my shoulders slump. “Do I think they are the better team? Well, no, but they are the team going to the finals, so my opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?”
    Parker’s anger seems to fade away a bit at my answer. His head bobs in a nod to me and looks somewhat mollified.
    Another reporter whom I cannot quite see chimes in before anyone else can. “I know you said you aren’t going to talk about your future plans,” I feel my aggravation level go up a few notches before he finishes his sentence. “But you are getting day off tomorrow, what are you going to do?” The level drops more notches then it moved up. Whomever you are, thank you for breaking the tension just a little bit.
    “I am going to go home and sleep until noon, maybe later.” This generates some chuckles among the reporters. Barber follows up with his own answer so I do not have to elaborate about what I will do after.
    “My parents are in town, so I will probably spend time with them, maybe have lunch somewhere in the city.” Barber is from Manitoba, his family actually drove here for the playoffs.
    We get asked plenty more questions, mostly about the game but Barber and I do not really give out more than the standard answers you would hear from any player who just lost a big game. Both of us are seasoned enough to have several different ways to say “Yes, we are disappointed.”  Eventually time runs out and it ends.
    After a few more brief exchanges with well wishers Barber and I are brought out the side door towards the exit of the arena. He puts his left hand on my shoulder as we walk into the cool night of the parking lot. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks,” Is all he says. I turn look him in his eyes. He has his right hand out. I take it but go in for the “shake and hug.”
    I do not have the energy to say more to him other than “We’ll talk more on Tuesday.”  I make my way to my car.  Usually there are a few fans in the lot looking for autographs but it looks like security has cleared them out tonight, which I am thankful for. I do not mind signing them as I recognize it is part of what I signed up for, but not tonight. I start my car and make my way out of the lot. The usually traffic from fans leaving the game is already long gone so it doesn’t take me long to make my way to Union Wharf in the North End.
    I park the car and get in the elevator. The trip up takes roughly four thousand years. The doors open up and I make the way to the door into our condo. It is already open when I get there. Liz is there, waiting for me. She was at the game of course, but she did not stay after it was over. This is fine with me as I told her to take the kids home if we lost. They have school in the morning.
    I walk in and close the door behind me. She looks at me, I look at her. She walks over to me and hugs me. I hug her back, tightly. The tears come slowly at first. It does not take long for them to escalate into outright weeping. I press my face into her shoulder. She puts her hand on the back of my head but remains silent. I sob, my body heaving.
    Sure, it’s just a game. But it’s my life.