Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Max glares at me like he wants to murder me in my sleep.
It’d be a long, slow, painful death.
I’d probably deserve it.
I flash a closed-mouth grin as I pull on a yellow undershirt. “Look, I’m happy to wipe the floor with all you clowns in the brain-game department,” I say.
I’ve only been playing them my entire time in the pros. Anything for an edge.
Anything to prove I belong here.
When I was younger, so many people said I didn’t. Well, the facts said it too. I went undrafted. After college, I had to claw my way up. I went to a training camp for the Miami team as a free agent and impressed them, but I got sent to the minors. Then I landed a shot at the Phoenix training camp. Same deal—I was an undrafted free agent too, only older. But I played hard, worked harder, and finally snagged a slot on the roster. Didn’t log ice time in my first NHL game until I was twenty-four.
Nearly ancient by this sport’s standards.
Definitely an anomaly, as sportscasters pointed out. Hockey pundits figured I’d be an afterthought. The player who’d spend a couple of months in the pros, fill in here or there, and disappear.
I defied the odds.
I stayed for twelve.
A career in hockey was a puzzle to solve.
And that’s what I fucking do.
These brain games help with focus. And now, all my focus goes to the ice.
I pull on my jersey, then grab my water bottle—the same one I bring to every game, covered in stickers of mountains with the words Surprise Them across the side. “All right, kids. Hitting the ice for warmups,” I say.
“Good plan, old man,” Max calls. “Let me know if you need your AARP card to play tonight.”
I flip him the bird and head out.
Look, I’m not saying the Penguin Maze warmed up my brain, but I am in the zone physically and mentally.
In the first period, when I’m not on the ice, I’m laser-focused on studying the Chicago defenders here in our rink and the way they try to snag the puck from our forwards.
When it’s time for a line change, I hop over the boards and attack, drowning out everything but the game.
The crowd noise? Gone.
The chirping from the opponents? Irrelevant.
Every thought outside of this second, this play, this chance? Nonexistent.
Falcon snags the puck on a rebound and flicks it my way.
I escort it down the ice, taking a shot on goal.
It’s nearly there, but their goalie lunges for it, snagging it just before it goes in.
Next time.
We’ll get it next time.
I don’t get stuck on what didn’t happen in one play. The past is already written. But the future? That’s still up for grabs.
When the shift ends, I hop over the boards, take a breath, and visualize what’s coming.
And in the third period, I’m fucking ready when Bryant jumps on the puck, racing down the ice. I’m right by his side, but a Chicago defender comes out of nowhere, stripping it from him.
Fuck that.
As the guy spins, clearly hunting for a teammate to pass to, I reach out my stick, thank you very much, and take it for myself.
I race back toward the net, calculating, waiting, reading the Chicago goalie.
He shifts right.
I send the puck left, straight to Bryant, who whips it past a sliver of an opening.
Perfect shot.
The lamp lights. The crowd roars. For a brief second, I let the sound filter in.
That’s another thing I’ve learned over time—how to block out the noise that doesn’t matter. And how to let in only the good stuff since the good stuff fuels you.
Otherwise known as how to have a thick skin.
When the game ends with a W, I skate off the ice, grateful we’re starting the season with another win.
More grateful that I feel good.
Well, mostly good.
I move through my post-game rituals. But even after a quick bike ride at the arena, and then a polar plunge for five minutes at fifty-two degrees—and doing them after nearly every home game for more than ten years doesn’t make these ice baths any easier—my muscles are still sore, and my neck is tighter than a jack-in-the-box. Nothing that some time in the hot tub at home won’t fix though.
On the drive there, my mind wanders to my cute and irresistibly sexy neighbor, who I’m meeting in a couple days about the renovation.
And I wonder, can I see her from the hot tub up on the second-floor balcony? Is there a view into her kitchen? Her bedroom? Her living room? I’ve never looked, and the whole way home, I can’t stop wondering what I’d see if I did.
The thought is entirely too tempting as I walk in the door.
With board shorts on, and Zamboni watching my every move, I grab my water bottle from my bureau—the one I keep at home that my sister’s kids got me for Christmas. They’re just as practical as their mom but a bit more creative since they put stickers of Corgis, German Shepherds, and my dog all over it.