I yanked my helmet off and dropped it on the bench, sweat dripping down my neck and my breathing hard as I gladly accepted a water bottle from one of the trainers.

Tonight was Game 7 of the Eastern Conference finals and we'd already played sixty minutes of strong, aggressive hockey against Philadelphia. Our forwards were quick to battle for the puck and create quality chances, the defensemen were playing smart and calculated, not allowing the opposing team to get easy shots off, and the guys were playing clean, only racking up one penalty the entirety of regulation. We were playing exactly how we'd planned, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.

Like any good playoff game, we were tied after three periods and headed into overtime.

"Listen up, guys," Coach Davidson said, quieting down the chatter. "We're almost there. We knew this wouldn't be easy, because hell, every game this series has been down to the wire. But we all believe we're the better team, right?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Got that right coach!"

The corner of his mouth jutted upward. "Then you guys are going to go out there—heads held high and determination in your eyes—as if it were the beginning of the game. Forget that the first goal wins. Play as though you're coming out to prove something to the fans in the stands, but also everybody watching at home. The Boston Knights deserve to be here, and we deserve the win. So go out there and get it."

"He's right," Simmons said, standing up as captain of the team while a handful of men hollered and cheered. "We're where we want to be, and if we continue to play like we have all night, hell, this entire playoff run, we can do this. Just play with everything you've got, and that'll be enough."

"Knights on three!" I yelled.

"One, two, three, Knights!"

With the energy in the room high, Mackay, who sat next to me, clapped me on the shoulder before getting pulled into a conversation with his line mates. The anticipation was building, the plans of attack were being worked out, and the guys were all zeroing in on the goal while I sat alone, going through my own ritual.

Because if my game fell flat—as the guy between the pipes, guarding the net—there would be no chance for the rest of the team to shine.

I needed to keep my eye on the prize and be one hundred percent zoned in on the puck the moment it dropped. I had to be sharp, while at the same time thinking three moves ahead—looking for clues as to whether the guys on Philly would go for the easy shot or try to trick me. If they would pass it off to set up a play or wing it.

It was stressful and challenging, knowing everyone was relying on me to be at my very best, especially during this type of situation. But it was also the type of situation I craved, knowing this game would continue, minute by minute, until the puck sailed passed one of the goalies.

And that goalie couldn't be me. It wouldn't be. My teammates were putting their hopes on my shoulders, trusting in me, and I wouldn't let them down.

So, as I always did in between periods, I sat on my own, mentally preparing for what was to come while keeping a check on the thrum of adrenaline that flowed through my veins.

Which may have been why I was the first, if not the only guy to notice when the team's publicist appeared in the entryway of our locker room, her eyes wide in alarm. My brows furrowed as she motioned quickly to Coach, who sidled up next to her with confusion painting his features.

Strange.

She whispered feverishly in his ear, and all at once it became evidently clear something was wrong given that she wasn't waiting until after the game to deliver this news. I saw Coach's face drain of color, his sharp and calculated demeanor cracking as uncertainty and sadness rushed to the forefront.

Not knowing what to expect, the dread was already building in the pit of my stomach, and that was all before his gaze landed on me.

"Nyberg," he said, my name unusually rough leaving his mouth, "I'm going to need you in the hall for a minute."

That caught the attention of the rest of my teammates, because if there was one thing universally acknowledged between periods, it was that nobody interrupted my moments of solidarity as I worked to stay focused and in the zone. Not unless there was an emergency.

"Coach?" Simmons asked, echoing everyone else's thoughts as a heavy silence filled the room. "What's up?"

"I don't think—"

"It's fine," I said, pushing down the trepidation that was slowly crawling its way up my chest. "Whatever it is, you can say it in front of the guys."

Coach held my gaze for a moment, as though silently asking me if I was sure, but when I didn't waver, he sighed. Motioning for the publicist to repeat the words she'd said to him, it was clear she was apprehensive as everyone's attention fell to her, but despite wringing her hands together, she didn't argue.

"Your mother's been calling the front office," she spoke slowly, sympathy coating each word. "I'm sorry, but there's been an accident."

welcome to Ryan Nyberg's story, and I apologize for the emotions you'll likely feel in these first couple of chapters 🙈🙉🙊

I'll be updating weekly on Saturdays, so be sure to add this story to your library to be notified of new updates, follow me, and leave your thoughts/guesses on what'll happen in the comments below!