Shutout | Complete

Chapter 5

"I can't believe Ricky turned down going out tonight," Booker whined as he rested his dress shoes on the bottom of my stool, leaning back on the panelled wall behind him. "He's always down for a night out after a game."

Yeah, maybe for the ones that we actually win.

Wins were becoming increasingly few and far in between. With every loss our ratio was plummeting, and I could sense that it was beginning to affect everyone. After that night's massive loss none of the guys wanted to go out. Tensions were high. Some of the guys who had been best friends for years were getting on each other's nerves. The locker room was a mix of exhaustion and frustration, but somehow Booker and McKinley managed to get most of the team to come out and unwind for the night. It helped that they promised we'd head somewhere off-campus. No one wanted to deal with the humiliation of another loss in the presence of our peers.

The Falcons were spread out across the country bar we'd been to one other time before. They were hard to miss in the crowd of country garb. Most of the guys were still dressed in their formal pre-game attire. We stuck out like sore thumbs.

Booker had made the venue selection for that night. He insisted it was because we hadn't been there in a while, but I knew it was because he was trying to pull me up by my bootstraps and make me forget about being swapped out in the third period. My guess was that he thought the unauthentic country bar experience would make me feel at home. But nothing could force me to stop replaying fragments of that game in my head.

We were down big time. The University of Southern California was up seven to three before Coach had enough. He called me off, replacing me with Nikolas Petrov–the new pick up from last year. When realization of what was happening hit me, something in my chest shattered. I knew it was coming. It was only a matter of time. The junior goalie had been sanctioned by the NCAA to play for Fenton back in December when his cool down wore off.

But what stung more was that I knew it was officially over.

Coach Miller couldn't even spare me a glance as I sat myself down on the bench. I wrung out my glove as the Falcons scrambled to close the gap between us and the USC Trojans. At the final buzzer the score we had made some leeway, but it wasn't enough. The game ended in a devastating seven–five. The burning self-deprecation grew hotter when we got back to the change room and Miller had ushered Petrov into his office.

I was about to kiss my senior season bye-bye.

Raising the neck of the beer bottle to my lips, I tried my best to think about anything else. It didn't take long for my wish to be granted. Before I could take a proper swig, I began to sputter. Cold beer and whatever else landed in my hand as I coughed. I tried my best to recover without causing a scene. But between the carbonation and the lack of oxygen, my eyes began to burn with unshed tears.

"You good?" McKinley asked, patting me on the back.

So much for not causing a scene.

I gave him an unconvincing nod as I tried to clear my throat. Taking a deep breath of stale bar air, I did what I could to clear out my lungs and get my heart to start beating in a regular rhythm again.

Across the room, in a sea of plaid shirts and cowboy hats, was the same girl who I foolishly thought could be the answer to all of my problems.

It was impossible not to spot her blonde, wavy hair from a mile away. Long tresses brushed the back of the denim corset top that shaped her torso in all the right ways. I averted my eyes, trying to be the gentleman my mama raised me to be. They ended up traveling south across the long, flat plains of her stomach before reaching the thin stretch of warm toned skin. Her long legs were encased in a tight pair of skinny jeans that disappeared into a pair of brown leather cowboy boots. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone wear full denim so well.