Anytime. We disasters have to stick together.
Yoga4Lyfe
Goodnight, StatMan.
StatMan12
Goodnight, Yoga Girl. Talk to you tomorrow.
Chapter Six
Silas
Superstition is a funny thing. I don’t believe in demons. I’ve never been religious. But I believe that somehow my fate will change if I don’t practice certain rituals before every game. I’m cold and logical to a fault, but I have to follow these stupid rules I’ve made for myself because…
What if they are the difference between me killing it on the ice and a shutout loss?
I lace my left skate, then the right, then redo the left because the knot sits wrong. God forbid that I tie my laces wrong or tape my stick differently. I’m too superstitious for my own good.
Sitting in the locker room, I try to soothe myself. Game day rituals matter. The order is a big deal. The process needs to be done in a certain way. If I do everything right, in the right order, we win. That's not superstition; that's fact proven over hundreds of games.
Though I try to tune it out, noise builds around me in layers. Beck raps his stick on the floor in a steady beat, hisown pre-game rhythm that drives me crazy. But I'd never tell him to stop. What if he needs it to play his best?
Jett flips a puck into the palm of his glove, over and over. Hunter paces with his headphones on, shoulders loose, eyes already focused. He's listening to something aggressive, probably death metal, getting his head where it needs to be.
My left shoulder aches under the compressive sleeve. It always aches before we play the North Carolina Hurricanes. They're dirty players, every last one of them. They run traffic through the crease like it belongs to them. They crowd the goalie and count on the refs to swallow the whistle because they play every game like it’s playoff-style hockey.
I stretch my shoulder joint until it pops. The pop doesn’t bring any relief, though. My shoulder throbs, but I've played through worse.
Coach Cross steps into the middle of the room, using two fingers to whistle. The locker room falls silent. His voice stays flat, controlled, the way it gets when he's expecting a war.
"Here’s what I want to see. Start on time. Pucks deep. Own the net front." He pauses, eyes scanning the room. "They'll try to bully the crease. We don't get pushed around in our barn."
His gaze finds me, holds a second longer than everyone else. He knows my shoulder's bothering me. He also knows I'll play through it. That's what I do.
Coach Ryan follows him, tapping the doorframe twice. "Let's go to work."
I stand, grab my helmet, and bump knuckles with Jett. He shoves my shoulder like a brother, not a goalie. His shove is harder than usual, making sure I know he's counting on me.
"Keep my porch clear," he says.
"Keep your rebounds playable."
He grins. “Done and done.”
We hit the tunnel and the air thins out. The crowd on the other side sounds like a thunderhead about to break. We step into the light and the whole building jumps to its feet. Seventeen thousand people screaming for blood. Our blood or theirs. It doesn't matter as long as someone bleeds.
Warmups are muscle memory. Edge checks along the boards, hip turns to loosen up. Short passes at the blue line to get our hands warm. The ache in my shoulder throbs with the vibration of every pass. I ignore it, push through.
We skate out for the announcer introductions followed by the national anthem. Then the puck drops and the Seattle Havocfly. The crowd roars so loud it feels like the air shakes. I take a hit along the boards, absorb it, and reset. We hold off their first surge, then the next. Hunter forces a turnover, Reed fires low, and their goalie kicks it wide.
The rebound rolls to the corner, and I race back to kill a two-on-one. I drop to one knee, knock the pass aside, and Jett covers the loose puck. Whistle.
I stay focused on my job. Block shots. Clear bodies. Protect Jett.
There’s someone new on the opposing team. #18, Evan Malinsky. He’s replacing their usual right winger, a guy who’s been on and off the injured list for two years. Malinsky is young, spry, and aggressive. He makes it clear from the jump that he’s ready to toss gloves and brawl.
Hunter whistles at me, using two fingers to gesture to Malinsky. We’ve had all of our lives to develop a wordless code, so I know that I should watch Malinsky so that the rest of the team can operate more efficiently. Fuck yes, I can help with that. I love a mission.
