7 seconds left. If I could just get one goal here… 6 seconds left. We have possession. 5 seconds left. I lead for a pass. 4 seconds left. I receive it. 3 seconds left. The goalie falters. 2 seconds left. It’s a clear shot, unobstructed. 1 second left. The puck slides left, just missing the goal post. 0 seconds left. The buzzer goes off. I slide off the ice, a little dismayed. It’s just the first quarter; we still have time, I try to convince myself.
Back on the ice, I slide towards the opposing half as the second quarter flies by. The crowds’ deafening roars echo in my ears, drowning out most of my thoughts. I try to follow the puck, but nothing of substance is happening. It’s a mess, a mess of missed shots, missed passes, and miscommunications. Why can’t we do this? We’re Gryffindor! We’re better than this. I’m better than this. Though it’s not like the refs are helping. Right at the end of the second quarter, the ref makes a baseless penalty call against me. Though I usually hold my composure, this time even I can’t hide my dismay. Coach is yelling at him, but he’s unmoving. I know it would be futile, but it is such a dumb call, and I can’t help but want to argue. Sliding angrily into the penalty box, I watch the end of the quarter play out. While the card and playing down leads to nothing for Hufflepuff, the calls get increasingly worse.
The third quarter passes with few dramatics, but the refs’ calls increase my frustration. Like that wasn’t even close to a charge?? It feels like every call they make is against us, but even so, neither of us are able to score. We can’t lose this, not like this anyway. Literally just let them score. I don’t care, but we can’t lose just because of that one missed shot. It’s not like I’ve even made any good plays.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch the clock. 15 seconds left. The puck is in our possession, and we’re heading toward the goal. Maybe we can get a goal, then win in overtime or shootouts. Anything but a loss with that crappy shot to blame. The clock hits ten seconds. The ref makes a dumb call, and we lose possession. We’re done. This isn’t fair. Why does it have to end like this? Why couldn’t I have been a better attacker? They should’ve just put Gideon in. He’s the veteran! I’m just the incapable rookie, disappointing everyone but still stealing his first-string spot and so much of his playing time. The buzzer shrieks. I throw my helmet off and sink to my knees, facing the goal. I let out a choked “shit” before dissolving into uncontrollable sobs.
“James you’re fine! You’re literally the reason we won’t have to play Slytherin! We’ll probably end up playing Ravenclaw or someone and then we can get closer to the Stanley!” my teammate says from behind me. “Like, that’s literally so good!” My team surrounds me, hugging me on all sides. It’s no consolation though, knowing that we’ll have a better shot in the playoffs. The team around me fades off, heading back to the bench. With me is just Gideon and Fabian, the veteran twins. Look at me needing comfort from the guy I’m stealing playing time from.
Heading back to the bench and turning back to my bag, Frank comes up to me.
“Hey what’s up? You played so great, James,” he says.
“I-I I just f-feel-l like—I just—with the refs—and all—I just—it was so bad—I just—” I manage to get out before dissolving back into tears, resting my head on his shoulder. Great, needing comfort from another veteran that doesn’t get much playing time, while I’m just the ungrateful rookie.
“Yeah, the refs really were against you. But you did everything you could. You killed it, and now you don’t have to play Slytherin.” Honestly though, I was kind of looking forward to playing them.
“Y-yeah, I guess that’s good,” I say, pulling my head off his shoulder. I finish peeling off my pads and pack them back in my bag, using the time to try to slow my tears.
Walking to the bus seems to take forever. My tears have mostly subsided, and I grab one of the last empty seats left, near the front. Throwing my backpack on the ground, I collapse into the seat. My frustration peaks. I can’t do anything right, not even the thing I love most. I’m a failure at everything I do. My tears pick back up again. I deserve to fester in this loss; it’s literally all my fault. My team was counting on me, and I let them down. My tears are coming faster now. My heavy sobs wrack my body, but I manage to keep relatively quiet. I literally can’t handle any pressure. I barely took any shots and yet I still managed to miss the one that counted. It wasn’t even a goalie’s save, just a crappy play by me. I can’t do this anymore. I’m such a disappointment, yet I still feel so damn numb. Subconsciously I’m rubbing my fingers down my arms. I dig my nails in, still dragging them up and down. The pain calms my thoughts a little, but it’s not enough. Jesus I’m falling apart. I need help. Regulus could probably help. I need to talk to someone so it might as well be him. Picking up my phone, I open our messages. His last message is still there, unanswered.
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Good luck today! I know you will be amazing out there. Please let me know how the game goes. Love you lots
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So you let Regulus down too. With my thoughts twisting, I begin to question whether I should reach out to him. You don’t even deserve his help. He’s way too good of a boyfriend for you, and now you’re just going to burden him more. I shouldn’t do it, it’s too much to ask of him to deal with me when I’m like this. I promised him I’d tell him if I was struggling though. Before I have time to second-guess it, I text him.
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We lost 1-0
Can I call you when I get home
I like am not doing great like mental health wise rn so like that is kinda what this is about
I am not at home rn but I will let you know when I get home and then I can call
Be safe please
Okay thank you
I will try
Please try
I will
I love you very much
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God I really don’t deserve him. Reaching out to him gives me time to calm down. My heart stops racing. My hands fall limp by my sides. I breathe a sigh of relief, my breaths now calm and controlled, not frantic and sporadic. Sometimes it’s not just getting the actual help that helps, but merely the act of reaching out.