Mabel: Are you kidding me, self???? OK, gotta go.
As I ride, I place an order for pretzels from the local grocery store in Cozy Valley, asking for a rush delivery. The app tells me they’ll be there in twenty minutes. Perfect. Not sure if she’ll be able to bake more today, but at least she’ll have what she needs for tomorrow. I’ve been trying to help out with inventory and placing orders, since I’m good at that stuff, and it’s easy enough to do on the go. I send a message letting her know to be on the lookout. Then, I hop off the bike, head to the locker room, and put on my uniform, hoping that easy feeling lasts through the game.
And it does.
I score in the first five minutes, flicking a wrist shot right through the Miami goalie’s legs. He curses, and that makes the goal even better.
Miller gives a fist pump from all the way on the other side of the rink, while guarding our net.
Riggs claps me on the back.
Lake knocks the back of my helmet. “Fuck, yes.”
When it’s time for a line change a minute later, I jump over the boards, revved up and full of energy from the goal. I should be exhausted after working all day yesterday, but my head’s clear. No distractions pulling me in different directions. Just hockey. Just this moment. It’s so damn welcome.
It’s tempting to ease up, thanks to the early goal. But nope. I watch every play from the bench when it’s not my shift, tracking the Miami defenders and their tactics, trading my observations with teammates on the bench, then passing pucks to them on the ice.
When the game ends, we’ve put another W on the board. It’s one game, but it’s better than the last one I played, and in this business, I’ll take that. Maybe code-switching is what I need in…everything. Keep work separate from personal, hockey separate from the bakery.
Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. One I’ll have to use when I return to the bakery next week after a short road trip. And one I’ll need when I teach Mabel how to ace pickleball.
The Foxes hit up Dallas, absolutely destroying the team there, and not gonna lie—it’s satisfying to pummel them. Next up is Seattle, and we win there, too, thanks to an assist from me.
When I head into the visitors’ locker room at the end of the game, I yank off my helmet with a newfound lightness in my limbs, a veritable fucking spring in my step.
Miller strides in next, clunking around triumphantly in his leg pads. “Dude, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” His eyes are bright, his smile is wide.
Lake follows, giving him a side-eye and scoffing, “Unless you’re thinking about the badass owl that landed in my bird sanctuary last week and is making a nest, then no, you and I are not the same.”
Miller ruffles Lake’s messy hair. “Your brain is a funny place.”
“Yours is,” Lake says to him with a grunt.
But Miller is undeterred. “I’m thinking, we had kind of an uneven November there. Then we won four in a fucking row in December. And what changed this month, boys? What fucking changed?”
He mimes a drumroll. Riggs grins slyly. Lake does too. Ivan laughs knowingly.
“We ate at Knighty Night’s bakery,” Riggs puts in.
Miller mimes slamming a buzzer. “Riggs is always right.”
“Say that again. I need to record it for posterity,” Riggs says as he unlaces his skates.
Miller clears his throat. “I vote that Knighty Night needs to bring us monkey chow or cowboy cookies before every game. That’s what worked.”
The names are so ridiculous, they’re funny. “Monkey chow for you. Done,” I say.
Ivan taps his stick on the floor over and over, chanting, “Streak, streak, streak.”
We all get in on it, and when the repetition ends, Lake says, “But the logic adds up.”
“You are such a superstitious motherfucker,” I say. Even now, the winger is taking off his gear in the same order he does after every game. “Seriously, is there anything you guys won’t do for a free meal?”
Lake seems to consider this, staring at the ceiling, then shaking his head. “Nope.”
I’m feeling generous. Call it the code-switching effect. “Fine. Tomorrow night you can all come over for sandwiches and cornhole.”
Miller pumps a fist. “Dude. Your sandwiches are legend.”
