There’s another pause, a slight shift in the background noise on his end before he speaks again. “Look, I know it’s tough, but you’re overthinking it. Bad games happen. Doesn’t mean you’re not a good player. You know how it goes. You just gotta keep working, keep pushing through it.”
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration rising again. “It’s not just this game,” I admit, my voice coming out rougher than I want. “It’s… all of it. Feels like every time I get close to getting my shit together, something knocks me back down.”
Connor hums. “Okay. So, what are you gonna do about it?”
I frown. “What?”
“You can sit there and keep moping, telling yourself you suck… or you can get up, learn from it, and get better.”
I grind my teeth, my jaw tightening. “That’s not?—”
“It is, Ry. It’s all in your head. You play like you’ve already lost, guess what? You’re gonna lose. Let this shit linger? Next game’s gonna suck just as bad.”
I rub my forehead, frustration bubbling up again. “Yeah, I know.”
“Then do something about it,” Connor says.
I let out a long breath. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Itissimple,” he replies. “It’s just not easy.”
I lean back against the locker, staring up at the ceiling, my mind spinning. “You ever feel like you’re running after something that’s always just out of reach?”
Connor doesn’t answer right away. The silence hangs between us, heavy. “Yeah. I have.”
I glance at my phone, absently checking the time. It’s late—way too late to be stuck in my own head, but here I am. “What’d you do about it?”
“I stopped chasing it,” he answers. “Started focusing on what I could control. You can’t change the last game, but you can decide how you show up for the next one.”
I stay quiet, letting his words settle in. I can’t change what happened tonight, but maybe there’s something in that. Something I can work with.
Connor sighs on the other end. “Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t be pissed. Be pissed. Use it. But don’t let it define you. You’re a hell of a player, Ry, but if you let this shit mess with your head, it’s just gonna screw with your game even more.”
I swallow hard, feeling the sting of his words hit home. “Yeah, alright.”
There’s a pause, before he speaks up again. “You gonna be alright?”
Without even thinking, I lie. “Yeah.”
I can almost feel him staring through the phone, like he knows I’m full of shit, but he doesn’t push it. “Get some sleep, Ry.”
“Yeah. Night.” I hang up and toss the phone onto the bench, watching the screen fade to black. I lean back against the locker.My body aches—every muscle sore, every bruise reminding me of how much I’ve put into this game.
But it’s my pride that hurts the most.
And the worst part?
I have no idea how to fix it.
15
ISABELLA
The arena’s quiet.
It’s always weird how fast it changes—one minute, the place is alive with the roar of the crowd, and the next, it’s just empty seats and echoes. The silence is almost too loud.
I stroll down the hallway, my sneakers scraping on the floor with each step. My eyes flick toward the rink through the plexiglass. The ice is all scratched up from the blades, patches of melted water—remnants of a game that should’ve been different. A game that they should’ve won.
