PROLOGUE
SIDNEY
The first time I felt the prickles of anxiety, I was fifteen and thought I was in the first stages of frostbite.My fingertips started to tingle, and the air in my lungs felt like slime, heavy and slow moving.
My Juniors team had been practicing on an outdoor rink for a change of scenery, so being cold was part of the charm.I was used to being cold.
This was different.It felt different…and kind of scary.
I wish I could say that I wasn’t dramatic about it…but I can’t.After five minutes of struggling, I waved for a time out.The head coach and goaltending coach came skating over when they noticed I wasn’t immediately coming to them.
My heart was beating too fast, my head spinning with confusion and fear.I’d tried to move forward, to reach out to them, but my limbs quickly turned to lead.My body was getting heavier and heavier by the second.
When the coaches finally got to me, I was convinced I was dying.They’d taken one look at my panicked eyes through my goalie’s helmet and immediately dragged me off the ice for assessment.
It was only after half an hour of observation and tests that they concluded what was wrong with me.
Nerves.
I just had a case of bad nerves, and I’d let it consume me.
You just gotta play through the pain,my coach told me later.Don’t let nerves get the best of you.
At that time, I idolized my coach.What he said was gospel.So I did what he suggested.I apologized for my weakness and moved on.I played through the nerves.Played through the doubts and the negative thoughts.Focused on nothing but stopping the puck and the next play.
Ignoring what was happening worked.
Until it didn’t.
It wasn’t until I was twenty-four that I learned the true beast’s name.And by then, it was too late and too big to play through.
***
It’s game six.Eastern Conference Finals.Overtime shootout.
As a kid, I dreamed about a moment like this.The ultimate ending to the season.The do-or-die moment.
No mistakes can be made.No nuances missed.
Every slice of a skate is purposeful.And every shot better land…or it’s over.
In my case, every shot needs to be stopped.
The arena hums like a live wire.Twenty thousand fans, all packed in and pulsing with noise.Every chant, every breath, every flicker of the Jumbotron seems amplified inside my helmet.My vision tunnels, narrowing to the blue line, where their forward readies his shot.
One goal.That’s all it will take.
I’ve done this a thousand times before.I know how to breathe, how to track, how to anticipate.But tonight, something feels wrong.My shoulders and chest are too tight.The air claws at my throat, thick and grainy.My heart hammers in my chest—too hard and loud, until I can barely hear the ref’s whistle.
Focus.It’s just nerves.Breathe through it, play through it.I repeat the mantra, over and over, like a prayer.
I can do this.Breathe through it.
The player starts his approach.Skates cut across the ice, carving white arcs that shimmer under the lights.I lock onto his stick, watch for the angle of his blade, the twitch of his shoulder.But my pulse spikes again, blurring everything.
It’s like watching through water—distorted, off-tempo.
He fakes left.
