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Bridger

T he sharp slap of my stick against the ice reverberates in my ears as I dig in, chasing the puck down the boards. My pulse thunders, the stress of the playoff game pressing down on me.

This isn’t just about winning.

It’s about fighting for my place and proving to the team, and myself, that I deserve to be here. That I’m more than the sum of my screw-ups.

And then there’s my father.

Even without looking, I can feel his disapproval radiating from the stands. It’s the same suffocating presence I’ve been dealing with my entire life.

As my gaze flicks to the crowd, I don’t focus on his scowl.

I focus my attention on something else.

Some one else entirely.

Holland.

She’s sitting with the other girlfriends and wives, wearing my jersey.

My number.

Emotion wells inside me. It’s a strange concoction of pride and confusion. She doesn’t look like she wants to be here. Her back is straight and her face is unreadable.

But she came.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she’d show.

The odds were fifty-fifty at best.

Even though I only falter for a fraction of a second, that’s all it takes.

“Sanderson!” Coach’s sharp voice cuts through the air.

But it’s too late.

The puck slips past my stick before getting snapped up by the other team. I pivot hard and chase it down, but I’m behind the play. My gut twists as I watch them line up the shot and send the black disc sailing into our net.

The clang of the goal feels like a gunshot.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, skating back to the line. The groans from the crowd hit me like a wave.

I don’t look at my father. I don’t want to see the disgust and anger that will be written across his face.

Coach catches my attention before motioning for me to come off the ice. My legs feel like lead as I make it to the bench.

“Akeman, you’re in,” Coach calls, barely sparing me a glance.

Garret knocks into my shoulder with his own. “You’re making this too damn easy, Sanderson,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.

My jaw tightens as I grip my stick until my knuckles ache. The game continues, but I’m stuck in my head. My mistakes seem to multiply. Another fumbled play along with a turnover. It’s like quicksand, and there’s no way to get out of it.

By the time the buzzer sounds, we’ve managed to scrape out a win by one goal. My teammates are buzzing with relief and celebration, but I can’t bring myself to join in. My stomach churns as I skate off the ice, my gaze darting toward the stands.

Holland’s eyes find mine, and for a split second, it feels like everything slows. There’s no scorn in her expression, no pity. Just something soft, something I don’t deserve right now.

I look away before it can swallow me whole.

The locker room is chaos, filled with laughter and shouts. Ryder slaps me on the shoulder as I sink to the bench and stare sightlessly at my locker.

“Let it go, man. We all have off nights. That’s all this was.”

“Yeah,” Steele adds, passing me a water bottle. “We won, and that’s what matters.”

Their words barely register as I nod. Coach gives a speech about keeping our momentum, reminding us that this is what we’ve been working for all season. The guys cheer and make plans to head to Slap Shotz to celebrate.

One by one, they shower before taking off, leaving me alone. I sit on the bench, staring at the floor, my brain going over every mistake.

How many of the goals the other team scored were on me?

At least two.

It’s only when Coach clears his throat that I blink out of the thoughts circling around in my head. He pauses, eyebrows drawing together when I meet his gaze. His usual no-nonsense expression softens just a fraction.

“Sanderson.” His voice is steady, not sharp like it was during the game. “What are you still doing here? I thought everyone had taken off.”

With a shrug, I glance away. “Guess I just needed a minute.”

Coach Philips walks over, his footsteps deliberate, the sound of his shoes against the tile echoing in the emptiness of the room.

He settles beside me on the bench. “You played a decent game, but I’ve seen you play better.”

I let out a bitter laugh and shake my head. “Last I looked, decent didn’t win championships.”

“True,” he admits. “I know when a player’s head isn’t in the game. And tonight, yours wasn’t.”

I grit my teeth and stare at the floor. As much as I want to argue, it’s true. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Bridger.” The way he says my name, not my last name like usual, makes me look up. His eyes meet mine, steady and unwavering. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what it looks like when someone’s carrying more than just the weight of the game on their shoulders.”

My chest tightens. “It’s nothing,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “There’s just a lot of pressure right now. That’s all.”

With a sigh, he drags a hand down his face before dropping it back to his side. “Pressure is part of the game. Whatever’s going on outside the rink is bleeding in.”

I straighten as my defenses snap into place. “I’m handling it.”

“Maybe you are. But here’s the thing, handling it alone isn’t the same as handling it well. Just remember that my door’s always open if you need to talk. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be me. Find someone you trust and get it all out.”

The words hit harder than expected and sit heavy in my chest.

I swallow hard. “Thanks, Coach.”

He rises to his feet before clapping a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re a damn good player. But more than that, you’re a good man. Don’t forget that.”

I nod, my throat too tight to respond. He doesn’t linger, just gives my shoulder a squeeze before stepping back.

“Go home and rest up,” he says as he heads for the exit. “And remember, nobody wins every game. You’ve got what it takes to bounce back. Prove it to me next time.”

The door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone again. This time, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy. Everything he said stays with me, cutting through the noise in my brain.

Coach is right. I need to go home and get out of my own head.

Maybe the person to do that with is the girl sitting in the stands wearing the jersey I gave her last night. The very same one who I had my hands on this morning.

Fuck.

Just thinking about the way I rubbed my cock against her has the game fading to the background.

When the locker room door swings open again, I glance toward it, expecting Coach to walk back in. He probably forgot something in his office.

Instead, I find my father.

He strides in like he owns the place, his polished shoes clicking against the tiles. His suit is immaculate, and there’s not a single hair out of place. He looks every bit the man in control, down to the frigidness in his eyes.

“You almost fucked that up,” he says, his voice low and cutting, laced with barely suppressed fury. “You’re lucky your teammates picked up your slack. Otherwise, they’d be blaming you for that loss. It would be the first time in ten years that this school didn’t make it through the playoffs.”

“My game was off tonight,” I mutter. A conversation with him is the last thing I need right now. I’m well aware of my failures on the ice. I don’t need him to point out each one before ramming them down my throat.

The one thing I can always count on is my father kicking me when I’m already down. It’s his specialty.

“Your game was off?” he repeats with a laugh, but there’s zero humor in the snapped-out question. “You were a goddamn embarrassment out there. I should have left after the first period instead of wasting my time watching that shitshow.”

Even though his words cut deep, I keep my head down and focus on the tile beneath my feet. I don’t trust myself to look at him.

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” I say, my voice low but firm.

“Excuse me?” he growls, stalking closer.

My head snaps up. That’s when I remember just how dangerous it is to let my eyes stray from him. When he eats up the distance between us, I rise to my feet and straighten to my full height.