Jefferson screams as loud as he can. “When I say ‘Cap,’ you say, ‘Daddy.’ Cap!”
“Daddy!”
“Cap!”
“Daddy!”
We all start banging vigorously on our pads, screaming, “Ahh!” to close out the pregame ritual.
All three coaches wear matching grins as they exit the room. The countdown clock on the wall shows that we have eleven minutes until it’s time to make our way to the tunnel.
There’s movement all around the room, but I tune it all out, concentrating only on the friendship bracelet Sophia made me this past summer. I haven’t taken it off since, always wanting to keep her with me while I play. It’s black and green, matching the Bobcats jersey that hits just above my wrist. MY HERO is spelled out in letter beads in the center, and I close my eyes, saying a quick affirmation that Sadie taught me during one of our meditation sessions.
I am powerful and driven. I will make every open shot. I am a good teammate. I will do whatever it takes to win.
I repeat the affirmation two more times before standing and grabbing my helmet and gloves from the top of my stall.
Always the last one out of the room and onto the ice, I give Connor a fist bump, then a chest bump, and follow him out to the tunnel.
Let’s fucking do this.
We’re up 3–1 with two minutes left in the game. The feeling I had earlier hasn’t left once during tonight’s matchup. We’re firing on all cylinders and clicking better than we have all season.
Lincoln taps my shoulder, signaling I’m next up. I watch our team go toe-to-toe with the Hawks, battling in the neutral zone, keeping them from gaining entry into our zone.
Connor has the puck by our own blue line and he transitions forward, catching the Hawks while they’re tired. With possession of the puck, our center comes for a line change, and I hop over the boards to join Connor on the rush into the Hawks’ zone.
As soon as we cross their blue line, I take off as fast as I can toward the net, hoping to draw one of their defenders with me to create a scoring opportunity for Connor and Jefferson, who trails behind us.
The Hawks are tired after a long shift, and I gain a step on the defender in front of me, crashing the net hard. I stop right above the goal crease, not wanting to interfere with their goalie at all. It doesn’t matter that I’m not in his space, their goalie still isn’t happy with the fact I’m so close. I feel his blocker shove me in the back just as their defenseman shoulders me from the side.
I teeter a bit, but lean hard on my stick to keep my balance. Connor and Jefferson are coming fast, and I know in my bones that Connor is going to dish the puck across the ice. He’s unselfish in that way. I do my best to hold my ground, trying to distract the goalie as best as I can.
Just as Connor fires the puck over to Jefferson, I feel it. The goalie’s stick hits me in the side of my knee, right where there’s a gap in padding.
I go down. Hard.
Pain shoots through my knee as the buzzer sounds and commotion ensues around me. Someone falls on top of me, making me scream, as the pain intensifies in my knee.
No. No. No. No.
This can’t be happening.
Bodies are thrown off me, creating a potential escape route but I don’t move. Ican’tmove. I cradle my knee with both hands, writhing on the ice.
It hurts so fucking bad. Am I done? Was this my last gamethis year? Did I just fuck up our chances at the Stanley Cup? How bad is it?
The questions keep flying through my brain, my negativity consuming me.
“Niko.” Sloane’s voice is calm but firm, pulling me out of my spiral.
“Scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain right now?”
I grit my teeth and think about it. I extend my leg, attempting to gauge how bad the pain is and am surprised to see it doesn’t intensify when I move it.
“Six.”
Sloane nods and then looks over her shoulder to where Connor and Jefferson are standing. She motions to them to join us then looks back down to me.
