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gio

We didn’t lose the game. We ran out of time…

T he locker room is a mess—towels draped over benches, water bottles knocked on their sides, and the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing like they’re mocking us. The air is heavy, thick with sweat and disappointment, clinging to everything like a second skin. Dirty socks are strewn across the floor, mingling with drenched, musty pads that have been thrown aside in frustration.

It smells like defeat.

Mine.

Ours.

A unique, sour stench that’s somehow worse than the usual hockey funk. Defeat has a scent all its own, one that seeps into your pores and lingers long enough to remind you how badly you’ve failed.

I sit on the bench, staring at the scuffed tile floor as if it holds the answers I’m looking for. It doesn’t. My mask dangles from my hand, the plastic still damp, still sticky, like it’s absorbed every bad decision I made out there tonight .

The chatter is subdued, voices muffled by exhaustion and bruised egos.

No one wants to talk about it, but everyone’s thinking the same thing: we blew it.

Or worse—they’re thinking I blew it.

You let them down, Montagalo. Again.

What are they paying you for?

“Montagalo,” Coach’s gruff voice snaps through the haze, and I look up instinctively, my heart sinking further at the sight of his expression.

Stern.

Tired.

Disappointed.

“You good?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s a subtle demand for an explanation—one I don’t have. Not yet, my brain is too tired to come up with excuses. Too tired to explain why I bit it.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, voice sounding hollow. “Sitting here thinking.”

I sound like a pussy. A wuss.

Coach narrows his eyes; for a second, I think he might start screaming in my face—the way he was screaming during the game. Instead, he shakes his head.

Frustrated.

He wants better from me. Hell, I want better from me.

No one is more disappointed in my performance than I am.

“Think less,” he demands shrewdly. “React more.”

With that, he’s gone, moving on to someone else to give cold advice to; it won’t make us feel better or add goals to the scoreboard.

Sure, our defense didn’t exactly show up tonight, but I’m the goalie.

The last line of defense.

The one who’s supposed to clean up everyone else’s messes.

And I didn’t .

I sit for several more moments, letting Coach’s words settle.

Think less. React more.

Easier said than done, yeah? Out on the ice, there’s no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. But tonight, all I could do was think—and every thought led to another mistake.

I put my mask into my bag, the action mechanical. Automatic.

I’ve packed my shit thousands of times.

Around me, the guys move, talking in low tones that sound distant—I feel like I’m watching through a fogged-up window.

The locker room remains weighed down by our failure and unmet expectations.

“Gee,” Dominic Gagnon calls my nickname from across the room, his toothless grin annoyingly wide for a dude who lost his third game in a row. “You coming to Blanco?”

Of course Dom is in a good mood.

He always is, win or lose. Some people are built differently and not necessarily in a good way—not him though. Life of the party, shoulder to lean on, hype beast all the way.

And normally, I’m always down for a good time.

Blanco’s is a chic steakhouse with a dark, moody bar. The owner keeps it closed for the team after home games so it doesn’t get overrun by fans looking for autographs or selfies. The food is great, the drinks are better, and the atmosphere is perfect for blowing off steam without being watched like a zoo exhibit.

Tonight? The last thing I need is to get drunk and stew in my own mediocrity.

I sucked.

“Nah. No thanks,” I mutter, standing up and slinging my massive bag over my shoulder. The weight of it feels good—a reminder I still exist in the real world, even if I’m walking out of it with my tail between my legs. “Not tonight.”

Dom frowns. “Aw, come on. You’re not gonna leave me stuck with LeBlanc and Petrov, are you? Those two can’t hold a conversation to save their lives.”

I roll my eyes, halfway to the door. “Sounds like a you problem.”

His laughter follows me out, light and easy in a way that makes me want to turn around and punch him square in his stupid, gap-toothed grin.

I’m not in the mood for his good mood.

The cold air hits me as soon as I step outside, biting at my skin and cutting through the lingering haze of sweat and frustration. The parking lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching long under the flickering overhead lights.

My car sits alone near the far end, a beacon of solitude I can’t decide if I’m grateful for or resentful of. I toss my bag into the trunk with more force than necessary, the satisfying thud echoing in the still night air.

Blanco’s would be easy. A couple of drinks, some laughs, and I could’ve pretended, for a little while, I’m not the reason we’re on a losing streak. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Pretending only gets you so far.

I climb into the driver’s seat and sit there for a moment, staring at the dashboard. The silence feels heavier out here, away from the team, the locker room, the noise.

For a split second, I consider texting someone—anyone—to avoid going home and being alone with my negative thoughts. But I shake my head, shoving the idea aside.

This is the third game in a row I’ve played like shit—the weight of the entire team on my shoulders—and tonight the realization I may not be strong enough to carry it hits me square between the eyes.

I don’t deserve distraction tonight.

I deserve to be miserable.

I need to be home .

Soak in the hot tub.

Sleep it off .

If I can’t figure out how to get my act together soon, I’m not only letting the team down—I’m letting myself down, too.

No sooner am I throwing my bag down in the front entry of my penthouse than my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Only one other person besides my teammates would bug me.

Nova.

My twin sister has a sixth sense when it comes to me being in a funky mood. Like clockwork, she knows the exact moment I step through my front door.

Nova: Hey loser. How you holding up?

I sigh, regretting I haven’t muted her notifications by now.

Me: Define ‘holding up.’

The response is almost instant, as if she’s been waiting with her thumbs poised over the keyboard.

Nova: Yikes. That bad?

I don’t reply straight away. Instead, I toss my car keys on the counter, grab a water from the fridge, and let the cool condensation roll over my palm as I lean against the counter.

I flex the hand that has been stuffed in my goalie glove for the past few hours.

Nova: Wanna talk about it?

I smirk humorlessly at the screen. Nova always wants to talk about it—as if me spilling my guts is the answer to all my problems.

Talking.

Ha. Good luck.

Me: Not really.

I take a long drink of water, anticipating her next message.

Nova: Too bad. I’m coming over.

I almost spit out the water.

Me: NO. Don’t.

Nova: I’m already in the elevator.

Of course she is. Why do I bother anymore?

I groan, glancing toward the door as if I can will her to stay in the elevator and take it back down to her floor. Pfft. No chance of happening. Nova isn’t persistent—she’s relentless.

Have I mentioned my sister lives in the same building? In a swanky little apartment I purchased several floors below mine. It’s not the penthouse— that is all mine—but it’s too big for a petite girl like her, with panoramic windows and a skyline view.

She calls it “our building” as if she’s got some kind of equity stake in the place.

She does not.

Try telling her though, when she strolls through the lobby in sweatpants and demands the concierge carry her grocery bags.

Brat.

It wasn’t entirely selfless, buying her the apartment. Sure, I wanted to make sure she had somewhere safe and comfortable to live—but it came with the added bonus of keeping her close.

Too close since she can storm into my life unannounced with a key and food and zero respect for my boundaries.

Me: Go home. I DO NOT WANT COMPANY.

I am not in the mood.

Nova: You never want company.

Me: Yeah but this time I mean it.

She’s impossible. Guess this is what happens though when you lose your parents as teenagers and only have your sibling for support. You learn to lean on each other, sometimes a little too much . Nova has always been the one to show up, whether I wanted her to or not, with unyielding energy and the annoying ability to make me feel better without actually solving any of my problems.

When Mom and Dad died, it was the two of us.

Nova dealt with the loss by pretending nothing could touch her—bulldozing through life like she was invincible. I dealt with it by throwing myself into hockey. Practice. Games. Working out.

She says I use the game to avoid using emotions. She’s probably not wrong. But she avoids her emotions by pretending everything’s hunky-dory, so who’s winning here?

Neither of us.

When the elevator dings I hear the faint sound of her sneakers squeaking across the cold, marble tile of the hallway. She’s not in a hurry—she never is—but there’s something deliberate in her stride, like she’s preparing to pounce on me.

“Open up, loser!” she calls out cheerfully. Knocks a few times. “I brought snacks!”

Nothing says ‘Sorry you’re failing at life’ like a bag of chips, gummy bears—and unsolicited advice.

I take my time walking to the door, letting her knock again, harder this time—cause that’s what brothers do. Live to irritate their sisters…

“Come on! It’s freezing out here! Don’t make me eat all these snacks myself!”

Snacks?

I love those.

Still, when I yank the door open, it’s with a scowl. “ You do realize it’s not actually freezing, right? You’re in a hallway and live three floors down.”

She ignores me and breezes past, heading straight for the kitchen.

“No hello?” I complain. “No ‘How are you, Gio?’” I close the door behind her.

“You look like crap, by the way,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

“Thanks,” I deadpan, following her. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”

She ignores me, of course, wandering to the fridge like she’s searching for something to critique. “Ooh, nice. You bought the fancy sparkling water again.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s water.”

“Correction: it’s rich-people water,” she says, twisting off the cap and taking a long swig. “ Ahhh . So refreshing.” Nova plops down at a barstool and surveys my giant kitchen. “Seriously, you could use some plants or something. It’s like a robot lives here.”

So she’s always reminding me .

“A robot who likes his privacy.” I groan, running a hand through my hair. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I’m your sister,” she says with a shrug. “And you’d be totally lost without me.”

As much as I want to argue, I know she’s right; I would be lost without her.

Nova’s smirk softens as she reaches across the counter and slides a bag of gummy bears toward me.

“Eat one,” she demands, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

“Eat a gummy bear.” She wiggles the bag. “Trust me, it helps.”

I stare at her, then at the bag, before reluctantly grabbing one. I pop it into my mouth to shut her up, the chewy sweetness hitting my taste buds as she watches me with an annoyingly smug expression.

“See?” she says, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied grin.

“I feel so much better,” I deadpan.

“You’re welcome.” She ignores the sarcasm entirely, plucking another gummy bear out of the bag and biting its head off. “Now, tell me what’s going on with you.”

“It’s nothing,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “One bad game.”

Nova snorts. “You’ve had bad games before, and you didn’t look this miserable. What gives?”

“It’s not just tonight,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “It’s been three games, Nova. Three. Everyone’s counting on me, and I can’t—I?—”

I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

She doesn’t say anything at first, watches me with those sharp, calculating eyes. Somehow they always see right through me.

My sister sighs and gets up, walking around the counter to stand next to me, sliding her arm around my waist and giving me a squeeze.

“Know what your problem is?” she says, crossing her arms.

I glance at her.

“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

She laughs. “You take everything too seriously. You’re allowed to screw up sometimes, Gio. You’re human. Mostly.”

“Not for the amount of money they’re paying me,” I mutter, leaning back against the counter.

Nova rolls her eyes, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter like she owns the place.

“Boo-hoo, Mr. Million-Dollar Contract. Poor you, with your fancy penthouse and fancy sparkling water. The world must be so hard. ”

“It’s not about the money,” I snap. “It’s about the team. They’re counting on me to deliver, and I’m?—”

“— Human ,” she interrupts. “You said it’s not about the money, but you’re acting like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Gio—it’s a game. You’re not curing cancer.”

“Not the point,” I say through gritted teeth, but she cuts me off again.

“No, you’re missing the point,” she says, leaning forward. “You can’t carry the team on your own. That’s not how hockey works. You’re one guy, and last time I checked, there are five other dudes on the ice with you at all times. Maybe let them share some of the load, huh?”

I hate that she’s right.

She sees the look on my face and grins. “There it is. The face of someone realizing his brilliant sister knows what she’s talking about.”

I shake my head, but a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Brilliant might be pushing it.”

“Admit it,” she teases, kicking her legs playfully then hops down from the counter. “You’d be a total mess without me.”

“Debatable,” I say, grabbing the bag of gummy bears and tossing it at her. She catches it with ease, ripping it open like it’s her reward for a job well done.

She chews on a gummy bear, grabs several more, then heads toward my living room.

“Not to make you feel shittier,” she singsongs. “But I met one of your fans tonight—she wasn’t exactly thrilled with your performance.”

I freeze, halfway to grabbing the remote. “Shocker. Someone is pissed I shit the bed.”

“This girl was roasting you so hard I thought about ordering marshmallows,” Nova fires back, her grin stretching ear to ear.

That actually makes me laugh, despite myself.

I sink onto one end of the sofa, stretching my legs out as Nova clicks on the television, amused by her own joke .

“She had the whole bar laughing,” she continues, scrolling through streaming options as if her words weren’t making my nostrils flare. “During the third period she did an impression of you flailing in the goal and I almost fell off the barstool.”

“Which bar?” I sit up straighter.

“The one on the corner,” she says nonchalantly, still not looking up from the screen. “I think it’s called Five Alarm.”

Ahh. That bar.

Nova’s answer only makes me more suspicious. “What were you doing at a bar on a game night?”

She pauses, peeking at me with an innocent smile that’s anything but innocent. “Watching the game, obviously.”

“Nova.” My tone is heavy with warning.

“What?” she says, feigning confusion. “I like to support my brother. Is that a crime?”

“It is when you’re doing it from a bar instead of the arena?” I ask tersely. “You have family tickets, Nova. Expensive ones.”

As a matter-of-fact, the seats she usually sits in are against the glass and the most sought after seats in the arena. So the nights she doesn’t show up, they remain empty and could be sold for hundreds of dollars.

More so when the team is on a winning streak, or those years we’re in the finals.

She shrugs, her attention drifting back to the television. “I wasn’t in the mood to be at the arena tonight. Too many people, too much noise. You know how it is.”

“That’s it?”

Another shrug. “Maybe?”

I pause.

Wait.

Something’s off and I know her well enough to sense it.

“Fine!” she bursts out, throwing her hands in the air. “If you must know, I was there to meet a date, but he stood me up.”

I blink back my surprise.

“You’re kidding. ”

“Nope,” she says with exaggerated cheerfulness. “The guy bailed, without bothering to text. So I ended up at the bar alone, which was more entertaining than the date probably would’ve been.”

“Nova…” I trail off, not sure what to say.

My sister doesn’t do vulnerability.

She’s the type to brush everything off with a joke, and hearing her admit to something like this feels weirdly… raw.

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand to stop me. “I don’t need your pity, Gio. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” I repeat, my voice rising. “The guy didn’t even show up! Who the hell does that?”

Cocksucking loser.

“Apparently he does.” I see the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she looks away.

My hands clench into fists, the protective older brother in me roaring to the surface.

“What’s his name? I want to beat his ass!” Give me something to do with this pent-up aggression.

She snorts, shaking her head. “Like I’m going to tell you. I don’t need you going full hockey enforcer on some guy who’s not worth my time. I know Gio, you don’t have to lecture me.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

“Sorry it didn’t work out.” I want to argue with her so bad.

My sister grunts. “I’m not. Everything happens for a reason.”

“Surprisingly zen of you,” I remark, leaning back against the couch.

She smirks, grabbing another gummy bear. “What can I say? I’m a fountain of wisdom.”

“Or denial,” I mutter, earning a playful shove from her.

“Shut up,” she says, laughing. “Seriously, though, I dodged a bullet. If a guy can’t even text to say he’s not showing up for a date, he’s not someone I want in my life. ”

“Fair point,” I admit, though the idea of someone treating my sister like an afterthought makes my blood boil.

“Exactly.” Nova pops another gummy bear into her mouth. “Besides, I had more fun pretending not to know you and roasting you at the bar than I would have on a date.”

“Gee, thanks.” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”

“Absolutely not,” she replies, grinning. “The girl was hilarious, Gio. Like—brutally honest in the best way. We need people like that in your life.”

We ?

“People who insult me in public?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “I have you for that.”

“Eh. We can always use one more.”