The Weight of the Game
Liam POV
The deafening roar of the crowd surged through the stadium, shaking the very foundation of Bridgefield Arena. Liam Ashford tightened his grip on the hockey stick, his knuckles whitening under the strain.
The scoreboard above him flickered ominously: Falcons – 3, Timberwolves – 4. Only thirty seconds remained on the clock.
His breath came in sharp bursts as he positioned himself near center ice, eyes darting to the puck in play. Sweat dripped down his brow, mixing with the cold bite of the ice. He didn’t notice the ache in his legs or the burn in his lungs; his focus was absolute. This wasn’t just another game—it was their reputation on the line, his reputation. Losing was not an option.
“Come on, Ashford! Get your head in the game!” Coach Kane’s voice thundered from the sidelines, sharp and commanding. Liam didn’t flinch. If anything, the barked order steeled his resolve. Marcus Kane was a hard-ass, but he respected Liam’s ability to lead. And tonight, Liam was determined to prove why he wore the captain’s 'C' on his chest.
The puck snapped across the ice, a blur of black and white. Liam skated hard, weaving past the Timberwolves’ defense like they were amateurs. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, a familiar rush that made his movements sharper, faster. His stick connected with the puck, sending it flying toward one of his wingers, Ryan Caldwell.
“Ryan!” Liam barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. Ryan caught the puck on his blade and shot forward, dodging a defender’s outstretched stick. For a brief moment, the Falcons’ momentum shifted. The crowd screamed, sensing the possibility of a tie.
Ryan wound up for a slapshot, his form perfect, but the Timberwolves’ goalie anticipated it. The puck ricocheted off the goalie’s pad with a sharp clang. It shot back toward Liam, who had positioned himself near the blue line. He reacted instantly, his instincts honed from years on the ice.
“Five seconds!” someone yelled.
Liam’s heart thundered in his chest. Time slowed as he aimed, pulling back for a blistering slapshot. The puck screamed through the air, a black comet heading straight for the goal.
Then the final buzzer blared. The red goal light stayed dark.
The silence that followed was deafening. For a moment, Liam simply stood there, his stick still raised. The puck lay harmlessly behind the net. The realization hit him like a freight train: they had lost.
Around him, the Timberwolves erupted into cheers, throwing their sticks in the air as they celebrated their narrow victory. Liam clenched his jaw, skating toward the bench without a word. His teammates avoided his gaze, their disappointment as palpable as the cold air.
Inside the locker room, the tension was suffocating. Helmets thudded against lockers, and curses echoed off the tiled walls. Liam stripped off his gloves and slammed them onto the bench. The familiar sting of failure clawed at his insides. He hated this feeling more than anything.
“Hey, it’s just one game,” Cam Hayes tried, his voice light in an attempt to ease the tension. “We’ll crush them next time.”
Liam shot him a look, sharp enough to silence him. “Next time doesn’t matter. We needed this win.” His voice was low but carried an edge that silenced the room.
Ryan Caldwell leaned against his locker, still catching his breath. “We can’t win every game, Liam. It’s hockey.”
“No,” Liam snapped, turning on him. “It’s not just hockey. It’s Bridgefield. It’s our name. You think the Timberwolves would let us hear the end of this if they had lost?”
No one answered. They all knew he was right. The Falcons were held to a higher standard, and tonight, they had failed to meet it.
Coach Kane entered the room, his presence instantly commanding silence. His steely gaze swept over the team before landing on Liam. “Ashford. My office. Now.”
Liam didn’t hesitate, following the coach into the small office adjacent to the locker room. He shut the door behind him and stood at attention, his jaw tight.
Kane leaned against his desk, arms crossed. “What the hell happened out there?”
“We got sloppy,” Liam admitted, his voice even. “Our defense fell apart in the third period.”
“And whose job is it to keep them together?” Kane’s tone was sharp, his eyes boring into Liam’s. “You’re the captain. When your team starts falling apart, it’s on you to hold them together.”
Liam’s fists clenched at his sides. He knew the coach was right, but the sting of criticism grated against his pride. “It won’t happen again.”
Kane studied him for a long moment before nodding. “It better not. I don’t give a damn about excuses, Ashford. You’re better than this, and so is your team. Get them back in line.”
Liam left the office feeling the weight of Kane’s words pressing down on him. As he walked back into the locker room, he forced his shoulders back and his chin up. His team needed strength, not doubt.
“All right, listen up,” he said, his voice cutting through the muted conversations. “Tonight sucked, but it’s over. We fix this tomorrow. No excuses.”
One by one, his teammates nodded, the tension in the room easing slightly. But Liam knew the real battle wasn’t just on the ice—it was in keeping the Falcons’ reputation untarnished. And failure was not an option.
The neon lights of Blackwell’s Bar cast a hazy glow over the crowd, reflecting off rows of polished liquor bottles lining the back wall. The bass of a too-loud pop song vibrated in Liam’s chest as he leaned back in his seat, nursing his second whiskey of the night.
He’d agreed to come out with the guys because sitting at home, replaying the game in his head, felt unbearable. But being here wasn’t much better. The air reeked of beer and cheap cologne, and the hum of conversation grated on his already frayed nerves.
“Relax, Ashford,” Cam said, sliding into the seat next to him. He set a pint of beer on the table and nudged Liam’s arm with his elbow. “You look like you’re at a funeral. We’re supposed to be drowning our sorrows, not adding to them.”
Liam shot him a look, more annoyed than amused. “You’re plenty good at drowning sorrows for both of us.”
Across the booth, Ryan was already leaning close to a brunette who was all fake lashes and toothy smiles. He said something low that made her laugh, her hand brushing his arm as though they were old friends. Meanwhile, Noah stood by the bar, quietly observing, his sharp gaze flickering between the crowd and their group.
“Ryan’s got game tonight,” Cam quipped, taking a long pull from his beer. “Think he’ll leave with her?”
“Does it matter?” Liam muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She’s just here for a free drink and a good story.”
“You’re in a mood,” Cam said, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of the booth. “Let me guess—you’re thinking about the game.”
Liam didn’t bother denying it. The image of that puck skidding harmlessly behind the net was seared into his mind. He could still feel the weight of the stick in his hands, the hollow ache of missed opportunity.
“I’ve got to fix it,” Liam said finally, his voice low but firm. “We’ve got one bad game, and suddenly everyone’s questioning whether we deserve to be at the top. I won’t let that happen.”
Cam shrugged. “You’re too hard on yourself, man. We lost. It happens. You know what doesn’t happen? Me getting stood up by a hot blonde at the bar, so if you’ll excuse me...” He winked and slid out of the booth, heading for a group of women by the dartboard.
Liam sighed, his gaze wandering around the room. This wasn’t his scene. The noise, the crowds, the shallow conversations—it all felt suffocating. He wasn’t here to chase a distraction or prove anything.
But then she appeared.
Sabrina Langston moved through the bar like a cat prowling for prey. Her red dress clung to her figure in a way that demanded attention, and the confident click of her heels against the wooden floor was almost rhythmic. Heads turned as she passed, but her sharp blue eyes were fixed on one target: Liam Ashford.
He saw her coming before she reached the table and braced himself. Sabrina had been orbiting his world since freshman year, always finding an excuse to cross his path. She was rich, beautiful, and popular—the trifecta for most guys on campus. But to Liam, she was a headache wrapped in designer silk.
“Liam,” she purred, sliding into the seat Cam had vacated. Her smile was saccharine, but there was a glint in her eye that spoke of calculated intent. “You’re a hard man to pin down.”
“That’s usually the point,” he replied flatly, taking a sip of his whiskey. “What do you want, Sabrina?”
She feigned a pout, leaning forward just enough to let him catch the faint scent of her perfume. “Can’t a girl say hello to an old friend?”
“We’re not friends,” Liam said evenly, his tone clipped. “And I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”
“Who said anything about games?” Sabrina leaned closer, her voice dropping an octave. “I think we both know exactly what I’m here for.”
Liam set his glass down, the sound loud against the wooden table. His eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, he considered brushing her off. But the weight of the night, the game, and the expectations pressing down on him made the idea of giving in to something simple and physical all the more appealing.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s go.”
Sabrina’s smirk widened into a victorious grin as she stood, offering him her hand. Liam ignored it, rising from the booth with a fluid motion. Ryan caught his eye from across the bar, raising his glass in mock approval, while Noah’s brows furrowed slightly. Liam ignored them both.
The night dissolved into flashes of skin and heat, her lips urgent against his, her laughter echoing faintly in his ears. It wasn’t romantic or meaningful. It was mechanical, a way to silence the chaos in his head, if only for a little while.
When the sun filtered through the blinds the next morning, Liam woke to the smell of her perfume still clinging to his sheets. Sabrina was already up, slipping on her heels with the precision of someone used to early exits. She didn’t bother with pleasantries, just tossed him a coy smile as she opened the door.
“See you around, Liam,” she said, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
He didn’t respond, waiting until the door clicked shut before running a hand through his hair. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier.
The morning sunlight seeped through the half-drawn curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. Liam’s head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing with each beat of his heart. His eyes cracked open slowly, squinting against the light. The room felt foreign, too quiet, and the absence of Sabrina’s presence only added to the discomfort of the moment. He could still smell her perfume on the pillow beside him. The soft, lingering scent wasn’t a comfort—just a reminder of another meaningless distraction.
He exhaled sharply, pushing himself into a sitting position. His mind immediately returned to last night’s loss, the missed shot, the feeling of failure that weighed heavier than any hangover. But as his eyes focused on the clock beside the bed, he realized he didn’t have time to wallow. His father would be downstairs, probably already reading the newspaper with his usual air of superiority. The tension between them had only grown over the years, each of Liam’s failures met with a sharp reprimand that seemed to echo through the house.
Liam swung his legs off the side of the bed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, checking the time. He had to face the music.
The house was eerily quiet as he descended the stairs. The faint scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen, but his parents’ voices were already a low hum. His father, as always, was the first to speak.
“Liam.” Ethan Ashford’s voice was firm, almost clipped. He didn’t look up from the newspaper, but his presence was undeniable. The old man had a way of commanding the room, even when he was seated at the kitchen table. Liam’s mother, Claire, moved around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, but her eyes kept flicking toward him in that subtle way she had—always the peacekeeper, but always caught between her husband’s expectations and her son’s rebellious nature.
“Morning,” Liam muttered, trying to keep his tone neutral as he sat at the table, avoiding his father’s eyes. He grabbed a cup of coffee, trying to will the nausea away. He wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey, the sex, or the endless pressure, but the weight on his shoulders felt like it was getting heavier each day.
Ethan didn’t wait for pleasantries. His gaze finally lifted from the paper, his eyes narrowing as he set it down on the table. “How’s that history class going?” His tone wasn’t casual; it was laced with something sharp, like a knife under velvet.
Liam’s jaw tightened. “Fine,” he said, his voice controlled but laced with a subtle challenge. He had learned long ago to keep his emotions in check when it came to his father. Every word, every gesture had to be measured, calculated.
“Really?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think ‘fine’ is how I would describe a ‘B’ on your midterm. You’re supposed to be preparing to take over this firm, Liam. And if you can’t even manage your grades, how do you expect to handle real responsibility?”
Liam could feel the tension building in his chest. His fingers tightened around the coffee mug, knuckles whitening. “It’s just a B, Dad. It’s not the end of the world.” He kept his voice steady, but inside, a storm raged. The constant comparisons to his father’s expectations were suffocating. It wasn’t just about grades—it was about his worth. He was never enough, no matter how hard he tried.
Ethan’s eyes didn’t leave him. “Don’t tell me what’s ‘the end of the world,’ Liam. You don’t get it. This family doesn’t settle for mediocrity. If you want to inherit this firm, you need to show me that you’re capable of handling more than just hockey. You have responsibilities.”
The words stung. Liam’s entire life had been one long line of expectations: first to succeed in sports, then in academics, and eventually to take over the firm. But when did he ever get to choose for himself? When did he get to simply exist without constantly being scrutinized, measured, and compared?
Claire stepped in, her voice light but trying to cut through the tension. “Let’s not turn this into an argument so early in the morning. You’re both on edge. Liam, you know how your father gets when he’s worried. Ethan,” she said, her tone turning softer, “we need to support him, not tear him down.”
But Ethan wasn’t backing down. “He needs to understand that life doesn’t hand him anything on a silver platter. You’re good, Liam, but you’re not invincible. And I need you to remember that. You’re going to have to work harder than this if you want to get anywhere.”
Liam felt the anger rise in his chest, a familiar surge of heat. He had spent years trying to prove himself, but it was never enough. He wanted to shout, to tell his father that he was tired of being molded into something he wasn’t. But instead, he just bit his tongue, offering a curt nod.
“Yeah, I get it,” Liam muttered, standing up abruptly. “I’ll do better.” His voice was flat, devoid of the usual fire that burned within him.
He turned to leave, but before he could get far, Claire’s voice stopped him.
“Liam,” she said, her tone quiet but firm. “Your father’s right. We just want the best for you. We want you to be happy. But we also need you to take this seriously.”
Liam didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, barely able to process the words his mother had spoken. They didn’t even realize they were the ones holding him back. Happiness? What did that even mean when every decision in his life had already been made for him?
Outside, the honk of Cam’s car broke through his thoughts. He didn’t waste another second. He grabbed his jacket and headed out the front door, slamming it behind him. He needed a moment to himself, away from the suffocating walls of the house.
Cam was already in the car, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He flashed a grin when he saw Liam approach.
“Ready to get back on the ice, Captain?”
Liam didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sank into the passenger seat, running a hand over his face. Cam didn’t push, knowing how Liam was when he got like this. They didn’t need to talk about the game, or the breakfast disaster. It was just a matter of getting through the day.
“I’m good,” Liam finally said, exhaling deeply. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The car roared to life as Cam hit the accelerator, and for the first time that morning, Liam felt like he could breathe again. But deep down, the pressure of the last few hours still gnawed at him. And he knew that no matter how much he tried to escape, it would never really go away.
