I don’t like it when it rattles.
So, I avoid it as much as I can, but Exton ended up with a heavy suspension for the fight right on the cusp of playoffs. And additionally, Coach Hill tasked him with babysitting an injured figure skater until she can get back on the ice herself.
Fucking idiot.
I guess, he trains my patience just as good as others. But at least he’s harmless. Well, to everyone he doesn’t want to kill.
“Give me four rounds with acceleration and stop on a whistle. Front-facing then back-facing drills and the rest of the usual warm-ups. Minaev, Eagle, rounds and stretches.” Coach blows his whistle, pulling my mind back into our practice.
The rest of the team starts their grueling workout on the ice while I slip into my own zone, alongside Josh Eagle, our second goalie, making my mind slip into that blissful state of peace.
A state I only managed to find while in the net.
Hockey has been my escape since I was a kid, because even at age seven, I needed it.
It became even more vital to me five years ago, when the very last thread in me finally snapped.
To many, hockey is about brutality, unreasonable risk, luck, or even empty-headedness but the truth couldn’t be any more different.
It’s not brutality, it’s control, it’s power, it’s retribution and justice. And sometimes, it’s plain old fun.
It’s not unreasonable risk, it’s honor, it’s protection, it’s selflessness.
It’s not luck, it’s strategy, it’s dedication, it’s skill and concentration. It’s hours upon hours on that damn ice day after day. And least of all is it empty headedness.
But for me, it’s all of the above and so much more. It’s the only place where I’m not Severin Minaev, the son of Igor Minaev.
When I’m in that net, the mask slips and all that’s left is the power-hungry control freak with trust issues and obsessive tendencies.
It wasn’t random that I ended up as a goalie. Goalies are a special kind breed of players, and more often than not we’re made, not born, into it. Hell, if there is one thing I am grateful for to my father, it is just that.
I could never fill any other role on the ice, because no matter how close we are on the team, I’d never trust a single soul out there not to screw me over. Here, in the net, I have the ultimate control of the puck—of the whole game. It sings a tune only I’m able to decipher, hear its song in the air, feel its rush as it flies through time and space. I need the hairs on my arms to raise when it’s near. I need to be aware of it with every inch of my body.
Ice feels you better than any lie detector ever could. It doesn’t accept fools, crooks, and liars. It’s pure and hungry for talent and greatness, even if it’s confined in a body of an asshole.
But those who try to play around, slip, and fall before their blade touches the cold, slippery surface, planting their sorry asses on the unforgiving ice along with a few bruises as keepsakes.
That’s why I fell in love with hockey at a young age. It accepted me like I’ve never been accepted anywhere else. It was a placewhere everything made sense. From early on, I was told I had to fill big shoes, but they never quite fit. They gave me blisters and made me walk funny, like I didn’t quite fit them but catching flying pucks allows me to walk barefoot. It allows me to feel normal despite being far, far away from such a notion.
It keeps the nightmares away.
It also gave me a family. A new one because the one I was born into was more like a den of vipers. Still is.
I breathe in and out, letting my mind empty of all the chatter around me, and soon after I’m catching every puck that’s being thrown my way, while Goram, much to his dislike, plays defense.
Our coach likes to switch us all around from time to time so we can get the other players’ perspectives. Yep, the goalies become forwards and defensemen as well. It was strange at first, because no other team I ever played on did this, but it’s smart. You learn a whole lot when you’re looking at yourself from another position’s perspective.
See the cracks and vulnerabilities more clearly.
Soon enough, my eyes are trained on Abel as he rushes toward me with a puck and a cocky glimmer in his eyes. The guy is young, fast, and reckless. Often it works, but he lacks concentration so when Anze easily blocks his “perfect” shot, it ends up in my glove.
“Zlatan!” The whistle pierces the air, and Anze sighs loudly next to me.
“Opossum number one wasn’t watching me again,” he mutters, and as usual with Goram, no one is sure if he’s talking to one of us or himself, but the fact remains. He’s right, and now we’re going to waste yet another five minutes on this shit.
“Yes, Coach?” Zlatan hollers, his voice too cheery, and now I’m also groaning because he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing wrong. Every. Damn. Time.
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you? One eye is on the puck while the other is on their defense!”
