I close my eyes and think of my mother, of the way she used to smile when she told me I could be anything.
"I hope you're right, mama.”
Chapter Three
SCOTTIE
Game day feels different.
Maybe it's because it's the season opener—first real game after months of training and preseason bullshit. Or maybe it's because I woke up this morning with a weird knot of anticipation in my gut that I can't shake.
Either way, I'm buzzing by the time I get to the arena.
The locker room is already chaotic when I walk in—music blasting, guys chirping at each other, the familiar pre-game energy swirling through the air. I dump my bag on the bench and start the ritual: tape, skates, pads, jersey. Same order, every time. And I break off a piece of a Kit Kat bar, and stuff a piece in my mouth.
Superstition? Maybe. But I’ve always broken off one piece of the four-piece Kit Kat bar before the start of the game, and then one of the rest of the three pieces between periods, washing it down with white cherry Gatorade. I’ve done it since peewee days, and I’m not stopping now. Plus, the sugar rush gets me amped up.
"East. You ready to show these guys what we've got?" Aleksi Mäkelin says, the Hawkeye's other right-wing, already half-dressed, bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive golden retriever.
"Born ready, buddy."
"You say that before every game,” Hunter says.
"And I mean it every time."
Luka's across the room, lacing his skates with the same focused intensity he always has before a game. He's quiet—more than usual, actually—but I figure he's just in the zone.
Coach comes in for the pre-game speech, all fired up about showing the league what Seattle's made of, and then we're heading out to the tunnel.
The roar of the crowd hits me the second we step onto the ice, and everything else falls away.
This is it.
This is what I live for.
The game's a grinder.
We're matched up against Vancouver, and they're playing physical—lots of board work, lots of chippy little slashes when the refs aren't looking. But we hold our own.
Midway through the second period, Luka threads a perfect pass through two defenders, and I'm there to bury it top shelf. The lamp lights up, the crowd goes insane, and I can't help the grin that splits my face as my teammates pile on me.
"Fucking beauty, East!" Wolf yells, smacking my helmet.
Luka just nods, with that tiny smirk on his face that means he knew exactly where I'd be.
We hold the lead through the third, kill off a late penalty, and when the buzzer sounds, we've got our first win of the season.
The locker room afterward is pure chaos—guys howling, music cranked up, everyone riding the high of a solid win.
"Oakley's?" Olsen Bozmen, one of our two goalies, shouts over the noise. "First win of the season—we’ve got to celebrate!"
A chorus of agreement goes up, and twenty minutes later, half the team’s walking down the two blocks to the sports bar that we spend all of our after-game beers at. The fans come, the usual suspects, to celebrate with us, or to drown our sorrows when we lose.
But tonight?... Tonight’s going to be a good night.
Walking into Oakley’s, the dim lighting, scratched-up pool tables, a jukebox that's been playing the same rotation of classic rock since the nineties. It's perfect.
By the time we get there, the place is already packed with fans who somehow always know where we're going to be. I sign a couple of jerseys, take a few photos, and then make my way to the back where the guys have claimed the pool tables.
