Second Shot

The arena pulsed with energy, thousands of voices merging into a single roar that vibrated through the boards. Wyatt “Cowboy” Reynolds crouched low at the faceoff circle, the familiar rush of adrenaline coiling tight in his chest. The ice beneath him felt steady, solid—home.

He glanced up at the scoreboard. Third period. Tied game. Less than five minutes on the clock.

Just another game, he told himself. Just another shift.

But his body knew better. The burn in his legs hadn’t faded between shifts like it used to. His shoulders ached, his lungs strained. He adjusted his grip on his stick, shaking out the tension in his hands, willing himself to push through.

The opposing center locked eyes with him. Younger. Faster. Fresh legs. Wyatt smirked, the old bravado surfacing, though a flicker of doubt gnawed at the edges of his confidence. Did he still have it? The moves, the stamina, the instinct? He shoved the thought aside. There was no room for hesitation now. Maybe something was off tonight, maybe not—but it didn’t matter. The kid was about to get a masterclass in hockey, courtesy of Cowboy Reynolds.

The puck dropped. Wyatt took control, weaving through defenders with the skill that made him a legend. His skates cut sharply across the ice, carving a path toward the net as the roar of the crowd surged in his ears. He could still feel the game in his bones, every move an instinct honed over years of repetition.

The opposing enforcer, a younger, stronger player, eyed him like prey, his hulking frame a wall of muscle waiting to strike. Wyatt saw the challenge in his stance, the determination in his eyes. The kid wanted to prove himself, to take down the veteran, to put his name on the highlight reel at Wyatt’s expense.

Wyatt faked left, cut right, the puck glued to his stick. He almost had him beat, almost slipped free when—

BAM! A brutal, clean hit.

The impact rattled through his body like a shockwave, his world tilting in an instant. Pain exploded through his leg, sharp and searing. He heard—no, felt—something snap, a sickening pop that sent ice-cold dread straight to his core. His vision blurred for a split second, but there was no time to process it. He hit the ice hard, his body crumpling like a rag doll.

For a moment, all sound faded. No roaring crowd, no whistles, no clatter of sticks on ice. Just the sharp, ragged gasps of his own breath and the unrelenting fire in his leg.

Silence. The crowd held its breath.

He clenched his jaw, willing his body to move. Come on, get up. Just push through it. But nothing happened. His muscles refused, his body betraying him in a way it never had before. No. Not now. Not like this. Again, he tried to push up, his hands pressing against the ice, but his leg wouldn’t obey. The pain flared hot and sharp, unlike anything he’d felt before. A sickening wave of realization washed over him. Not this. Not like this.

Trainers rushed onto the ice, their voices distant, barely cutting through the dull roar in his ears. A shadow moved beside him, and then a familiar voice, strained with concern. “Cowboy, you good? Talk to me.” It was Matthews, his longtime linemate, dropping to one knee beside him. Wyatt swallowed hard, his pride warring with the pain. “Been better,” he rasped, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite land. Hands pressed against his shoulders, steadying him, urging him to stay down. He barely registered them. His focus tunneled to the pain, the failure, the sheer wrongness of it all. This wasn’t how his story was supposed to end.

Matthews’ hand hovered near Wyatt’s shoulder, uncertain whether to offer support or let the trainers do their job. “Just hang in there, man. Trainers are coming.” The urgency in his tone sent another wave of reality crashing over Wyatt. This was real. This was happening. “Yeah,” Wyatt muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

He exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath, staring up at the blinding arena lights. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him what had just happened. He knew it in his gut. He’d spent his whole life outrunning time, but tonight, time had finally caught him. The unstoppable force meeting the immovable truth—he wasn’t invincible anymore.

The ice felt colder beneath him, seeping into his bones. The reality of it settled like a lead weight in his chest. His career wasn’t winding down. It wasn’t a choice anymore.

The trainers maneuvered him onto the stretcher, his body limp, his mind racing. The roar of the crowd dulled, fading into something distant, like waves pulling back from the shore. The game continued around him, but he was no longer part of it. For the first time in his life, he was a spectator.

He’d spent his whole life chasing glory, but now, all he could think about was what came next. What was left when the thing that defined you was gone?

Wyatt sat on the bench, helmet off, sweat dripping down his face as the realization settled in. His fingers twitched involuntarily, curling slightly as if searching for the familiar weight of his stick. He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly, the ache in his leg a dull echo to the deeper pain gnawing at his gut. The ache in his leg was nothing compared to the hollow weight in his chest. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, as if expecting to still feel the stick in his grip, the rush of play at his command. But there was nothing.

The final buzzer sounded. He didn’t hear it. He didn’t need to.

His career was over, and the silence in his heart was louder than the roar of the crowd.

One Year Later

The limo slowed to a stop at the edge of the red carpet, camera flashes already flickering like fireworks. Wyatt adjusted his cuff, rolling his shoulders as he glanced at the woman beside him. Veronica. His on-again, off-again anchor to a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in anymore. She hadn’t said a word since their argument on the way over, but her posture—rigid, arms crossed, jaw set—spoke volumes.

“You could’ve at least worn the damn suit, Wyatt,” Veronica finally snapped, breaking the icy silence.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “Veronica, a ten-thousand-dollar suit isn’t exactly a smart investment for me right now.”

“It’s not about the money, it’s about the image,” she shot back, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently against her clutch. “You can’t keep acting like you’re just some regular guy now. You’re Wyatt Reynolds. People expect more.”

“People? Or you?” he countered, his tone even but firm. “Because right now, I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be impressing.”

She scoffed, turning her head toward the tinted window. “God, you just don’t get it.”

Before he could respond, the door opened, and she stepped out without another word, immediately enveloped in the bright lights and the calls of photographers. The moment she was clear, she turned back toward him—just long enough to ensure they got the perfect shot of him sitting there, looking annoyed, confused. The headlines would write themselves.

Wyatt sighed, running a hand through his hair before stepping out. Here we go again. The flashing lights, the fake smiles, the feeling of being paraded around like a prize—it all felt exhausting. But tonight, something was different. Something inside him told him this wasn’t where he belonged anymore. He barely glanced at the cameras. Instead, his gaze followed Veronica as she strode into the event, shoulders squared, every step a statement. Once, he’d have followed without a second thought.

Now? He looked down the red carpet at the woman he used to love, then exhaled sharply, adjusting his cuff with slow deliberation before turning the other way.

The voices of the crowd carried beyond the press line, calling for the bigger stars, the ones still in their prime. Not many were watching him. Not anymore.

He lingered for a moment, listening to the distant hum of excitement, the rapid flashes illuminating the red carpet behind him. It felt like a different world—one he no longer belonged to. He adjusted his jacket and exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle over him.

A gust of city air cut through the heat of the event, carrying with it the muffled sounds of passing cars and pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. He turned toward the street, where a small crowd had gathered beyond the velvet ropes, watching the spectacle unfold. Their attention was fixed on the dazzling lights, the celebrities stepping onto the carpet, the curated display of success and wealth.

But as Wyatt took a step away, his limp noticeable but steady, he felt something shift inside him. He didn’t need this anymore. He didn’t need the lights, the cameras, or the expectations that had weighed on him for so long.

He walked past the last security barrier and onto the sidewalk. The further he got, the quieter the noise became. No one called after him. No one rushed to pull him back into the spotlight.

For the first time in a long time, he felt free. A weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying lifted from his chest, his breath coming easier. The tension in his shoulders eased, and as he took another step forward, the cool night air wrapped around him, crisp and clean. He flexed his fingers at his sides, grounding himself in the sensation of movement—real, unforced movement—away from everything that had held him back. A slow, exhaled breath steadied him, and for the first time in what felt like years, he wasn’t looking back.

It was time for a change.

It was time for something new.