Sit. Breathe. Reset.
On the couch, I planted both feet flat, spine against the cushions. Inhale four, hold, exhale six. Inhale four, hold, exhale six. Again. My pulse slowed, matching the rhythm.
Picture the crease.
White ice. Red posts. No fans, no noise. Just me and the puck. Track it, see it, hold steady.
The pressure in my chest eased some. The noise in my head thinned to a low hum.
No voices, no words that weren’t mine. Just the ice. Just me.
Just maybe, sleep would come.
The first breath outside sliced through the fog I’d woken up with. By the time I hit the sidewalk, heading towards practice, I’d shoved last night as far back as it would go, letting the cold and the rhythm of my steps pull me back into hockey mode.
I pushed through the arena doors, the hum of the compressors in the rink pulling me the rest of the way awake. The air inside carried the smell of ice and rubber, the scrape of a skate somewhere out of sight.
Through the glass, the rink stretched out in clean, perfect lines, waiting. A few guys were already out there, sticks tapping, voices carrying in bursts of chirping and laughter.
These guys blocked lanes, cleared rebounds, took hits. Every guy earned his ice, even the ones who made me crazy.
I caught Chappy at the boards and gave a quick fist bump through the glass. Already on the ice, he was backup in title only. Some guys wait for their shot, he chased it every morning.
Coach was already parked at center ice, resting his gloves on the top of his stick, wearing the kind of grin that meant trouble. “Hope you got your beauty sleep, Callahan. You’re gonna need it."
From the bench, Ryder called, “We’re under strict orders to make your life miserable today. Nothing personal.”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered, tugging my gloves on, but the corner of my mouth pulled up anyway.
“Coach wants us firing wrist shots like Dekker,” Mac added, tapping the blade of his stick against the ice. “Quick release, no tell. You know, your favorite.”
Dekker’s wrist shot was lethal, quick release, no tell. Worse, his line were pros at screening. Double threat.
“Guess I should’ve carb-loaded,” I said, stepping into the crease.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go easy,” Ryder shot back. Then he smirked, “For about thirty seconds.”
The puck dropped into play, and the first shot whistled past my ear before I’d even set my feet.
I regrouped, dropped into my stance, knees loose, stick flat, trying to settle into the crease. But the next few pucks felt like they had magnets for the wrong side of my pads. Shots I should’ve eaten for breakfast skipped off me, rebounds clattering into the slot.
Read through the fog.
“Callahan, wake up back there,” one of the guys barked, as he chased down the loose puck.
I flexed my glove, rolled my shoulders, forced a deep breath. I was having as much trouble clearing the static from my head as I was clearing the puck from the crease.
Another shot came in low, stick-side. I dropped early, kicked it out too far. Swore under my breath.
“Rough night, Callahan?” someone chirped. Laughter rippled, not cruel, just boys being boys.
I gave them the lazy glove wave, like yeah, yeah, get your laughs in.
Just let it happen.
Mac lined up at the blue line, eyes cutting to me like he smelled blood. “Let’s test him, boys.”
I tracked it, body snapping to the right, glove flashing out. Caught clean. Felt good. Solid.
