“Less daydreaming, more blocking. Unless you want to spend tomorrow’s game on the bench, writing an essay about the basics of goaltending.”
“On it, Coach.”
Practice is brutal today, which means it’s a normal Tuesday in Hockey Town. Badaszek runs us through drill after drill, his whistle punctuating every mistake with a shrill reminder not to let my mind wander, which it’s prone to do.
My ability to daydream got me on the ice. Some people claim that it’s a distraction, making me forgetful, but in reality, it provides a kind of underrated focus.
While most kids were playing video games—okay, to be fair, I did some of that too—I was just daydreaming aboutthis. The sound, the smell, the feel. Every nuance of hockey came to life in my imagination. I pictured the locker room, practices, the drills, the sweat, blood—sometimes tears. It was like a constant movie in my head and now it’s my life.
What my teachers called “absent-mindedness” and “distraction” paid off.
Booyah and huzzah!Take that, scoffers.
Well, mostly it paid off.
Now, my daydreams always have to do with, you guessed it, April Hansen. I thought I could shake the crush I have on my best friend, but it only seems to grow by the day.
When Badaszek finally lets up and we hit the showers, my legs are burning and I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated out fifty percent of my body weight. Time to hydrate.
As I toss my sweaty, stinky gear into the laundry cart, I nearly get a wadded-up sock to the face. Grimacing, I dodge it.
“Almost got you in the smacker,” Hayden says without apology.
“Were you aiming or?—?”
He plays on the left wing of the front line and laughs as if I won’t soon return the favor. I may be one of the newer players, but I humbly hold my own on the ice and off—and I think the old guard respects me for it.
Thetruth is, most hockey players are basically just large children with exceptional dental insurance. The locker room scene proves it. Someone blasts a rock song as if they need to get pumped up to return to the real world. That doesn’t make sense to most people, but I get it. We live and breathe the game. The rest is secondary—except when it comes to our family and friends. Mikey is showing off photos of his proposal to Juniper like a proud peacock. Fletch peels off his practice jersey and, as usual, provides commentary on everyone’s life choices.
“Blue asked me what love at first sight feels like,” Redd says, referring to the little sister he didn’t know existed for most of her life, who was somewhat recently sent to live with him.
“True love? There’s no such thing,” Liam, our captain, argues.
We all go silent, surprised he’d contribute to a conversation about the L-word. Granted, he loves his wife, but the guy is a certified grump.
Stance firm, he says, “Love grows over time.”
Everyone pipes up with opinions. I happen to know as a matter of irrefutable fact that love at first sight is very, very real. I would also argue that it grows over time and grows and grows and never stops growing. It’s practically eating me out of house and home. Actually, that would be the dogs. But they’re primarily for her. Everything is.
Robo says, “Tell Blue that it feels like getting checked into the boards, but in a good way.”
Vohn Brandt, assistant coach and not to be trifled with, says, “It’s subjective but real. End of story.” He speaks with authority, whether from experience—after all, he’s married to a romance book store owner—or both, I’m not sure.
“Aggressive.” Jack shudders.
“Speaking of love,” Pierre says, looking up from his phonewith a grin. “Cara just sent me a photo of a puppy from a charity thing. Look at this face.”
He flashes his phone around while doing baby talk about how cute the bichon frise and toy poodle mix is.
“Yeah, that’s an objectively cute puppy,” I say nonchalantly because I instantly want it. It’s not like I have puppy fever. No, more likeApril feverand I use any excuse to add to my home for wayward and lovable dogs.
“Ooh. Bree would approve,” Fletch chimes.
“Don’t you guys already have a dog?” I ask, reaching for my water bottle.
“Yeah, Bailey,” Fletch confirms. “But this isn’t for us. I’m texting Nina.”
Lane tenses. “My wife.”
