My fingers tighten around the notebook I’ve been clutching since the first period. I spent the entire night tracking plays, analyzing movements, noting down stats my dad had asked for.
I let out a slow breath, glancing toward my dad’s office at the end of the hall. The door’s closed. The lights are off.
That’s weird.
He’s always in there after a game. Win or lose, he’s breaking down footage, running through plays, making notes, preparing for the next one.
My curiosity starts to itch, so I glance toward the locker rooms, and that’s when I hear a low groan.
I stop in my tracks, my brows furrowing. There’s no reason anyone should still be here. The guys all left a while ago, headed to grab drinks and forget about the loss. So why?—?
I nudge the door open just a little, trying not to make a sound. The room is mostly dark, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway. But even in the low light, I catch a glimpse of movement.
I push the door open a little wider, stepping inside.
“Dad?”
A low, teasing chuckle cuts through the dark. “Not your daddy.”
I roll my eyes, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly at the sound of his voice. I step further in, leaning against the lockers.
Ryan’s slumped on the bench, elbows braced against his knees. He’s peeled off all his gear, left with only his jersey and the tight compression shorts. Sweat clings to his skin, making the fabric stick. His hair’s a mess, sticking up like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times.
“You’re still here?” I ask. “I thought you’d be out with the guys.”
“Not really in the mood,” he mutters, his eyes staring blankly ahead.
I study him for a second, the way he’s hunched over, like he’s carrying the entire team’s defeat on his back. “You played well,” I say with a small smile, hoping to lift his spirits.
His jaw tightens, and he finally looks up at me, his eyes full of frustration. “Did you watch the same game?”
I frown, pushing off the lockers. “Ryan, you were out there busting your ass.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. We still lost. And that’s on me.”
I step closer to him, pulling out my notebook from my bag, scanning the notes I wrote down during the game. “You had three shots on goal, won most of your faceoffs, and were solid on defense. Plus, you set up Austin’s goal.”
I offer the notebook to him, but he just stares at the pages for a second before running a hand through his messy hair again, letting out a scoff, a short, bitter laugh following it. “And yet, we still lost.”
“The team didn’t lose because of you,” I argue, narrowing my eyes at him.
He shakes his head, refusing to meet my gaze. “We were already down, and then I got fucking slammed into the boards. Spent a full minute trying to get my head straight. Feels like my fault.”
“Ryan, one play doesn’t decide the whole game.”
“Maybe not,” he mutters. “But I should’ve been better.”
I watch him for a long moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor, his jaw tight. He drags a hand through his hair. “I let my dad down,” he says, almost under his breath, like it hurts for him to admit it.
I pause, my brows pulling together. This isn’t the Ryan I’m used to—the guy who’s always cracking jokes, throwing out those smooth lines like nothing can touch him. Hearing him like this? It throws me off.
I step closer to him, watching the way he avoids my eyes, staring at the ground. “You don’t need to prove anything to him or anyone else here, Ryan.”
He looks up, his lips pulled into a frown. “I was supposed to do better. To make him proud.” His voice falters for a second, and I see that flicker of doubt. “But I didn’t. I never do. I still mess it all up. Every single time.”
God, hearing that makes my stomach twist.
“You push yourself too hard,” I say quietly, watching him.
