The Final Buzzer
Chapter 1: The Final Buzzer
POV: LIAM
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 unfamiliar 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 will let us hear the end of this? We’re supposed to dominate. I won’t be the first Bridgefield captain in six years to give away the Trident.”
No one answered. They all knew he was right.
If this game set the tone for the season, the Falcons wouldn’t just lose the trophy—they’d forfeit the pride of the entire university, the legacy so many players before them had fought for.
Coach Kane entered the room, and his presence instantly commanded 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 up to 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. No excuses, Ashford. You’re better than this, and so is your team. Get them back in line.”
As he turned to go, Kane added, “I’m hearing rumors about your grades slipping. Don’t think I’ll overlook it. Another C on a paper and you won’t be wearing that C on your chest. The rules apply to everyone.”
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 up to scratch in the classroom too.
At Bridgefield, athletes were held to an above-average academic standard. It was part of what gave the college its stellar reputation.
If a key player’s grade point average slipped now, the whole team was in trouble. Because even a key player could be benched.
Even a captain.
The thought made his stomach twist, and he shoved it aside.
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 drowning enough 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. “We’ll never see her again.”
“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 a missed opportunity.
“I’ve got to fix it,” Liam said finally, his voice low but firm. “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 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.
He had taken her to bed more times than he cared to admit, even to himself. Each time, he swore it would be the last. He wasn’t the type to keep someone dangling. The Ashford code of honor didn’t allow it.
“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?” She leaned closer. “I think we both know exactly what I’m here for.”
Liam set his glass down, and the sound was 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, Coach’s warning about his slipping GPA—made the idea of losing himself in something simple and physical dangerously tempting.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s go.”
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.
Sabrina had already left by the time the first hint of morning crept over the skyline. Slipped out before the sun could expose the mess they’d made of each other—quiet, efficient, and unapologetic.
No note.
No lingering glance.
Just the soft click of the door and the scent of her perfume clinging to the sheets like a stain.
As usual.
He was relieved to find her gone. And then ashamed of himself for being so transactional.
The pillow still held a faint trace of her perfume—floral, sharp, unmistakably hers. He wrinkled his nose and threw it off the bed.
