It seems everyone knows that Paige and I are heading to the Olympics. We were the picks for the USA women’s team, and I’m grateful that our home team is more excited than jealous when they practice with us.
Paige’s goalie game is the most intense I’ve ever seen. Not that the other Pro Women’s Hockey League teams don’t have great goalies, because they definitely do. New York’s goalie was picked for our team, as well as Seattle’s. We’re going to Italy with a solid group, and I can’t wait to get on Olympic ice with them.
We’ve already met with our teammates on multiple occasions to get a practice in and make sure we flow. So far, Rissa and Riley have fallen into a routine with Paige and me, but the rest will follow suit the more we work together.
Everything has gone better than expected when it comes to all these players. It’s pure perfection, honestly. The plays we’ve come up with and the overall team chemistry have made me proud to extend my captain status from our PWHL team over to the Olympic team.
And it seems the majority agree with the decision of the national team's general managers to make me captain.
No pressure at all, right?
Billy hands me covers for my skates when I leave the ice to head to the locker rooms, and he squeezes me on the shoulder for luck. He’s never been much of a talker, but that works for me because… well, same. The fewer words exchanged between another human and me, the better. My Aunt Keisha tells me all the time that I would like humans more if they just didn’t talk.
I sit on the chair in front of my locker and start stripping away my gear like a hermit crab. My mind is racing through my upcoming schedule, and I fear I’m not going to sleep at all tonight.
T-minus eleven hours until the plane takes me from the safety of my condo in Boston, Massachusetts, and dumps me into the shark tank that waits for us in Milan, Italy.
It’s time to transition from Skye, the Boston hockey player, to Skye, the Olympian.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything. That’s what.
I’m packing my bags at home in my condo and realize my passport is missing, my lucky mouth guard is probably hiding wherever my passport took shelter, and all of my laundry is sitting in a sopping-wet washing machine that stopped working halfway through the cycle.
Awesome.
I kick the washer because what’s the worst that can happen, it’ll fix it?
SMASH.
SLAM.
Nothing.
“Junk,” I grumble, looking at the top-of-the-line piece of garbage that sits in my laundry room. Kicking it once more has it making a weird sound near the base of the machine, and I take a step back. “Apparently, durability was optional when this stupid thing was built.”
I run a frustrated hand over my face, assessing my options.
I have no options.
Calling the hot nurse who works with my Aunt Keisha is a possibility. But only if I want her to associate me with dirty laundry every time I visit the center.
My nostrils flare, and I heave out a heavy breath.
Grabbing my phone from the coffee table in the living room, I text Paige a very rare SOS.
Skye: Are you home? I’m having a bit of a situation.
Paige: Oh, shit. Must be bad if I’m hearing about it.
Skye: So… does that mean you’re home?
Paige: Nope. Sorry. I’m at my mom’s, saying my goodbyes before I head out tomorrow. I’ll be home in a few hours if this wine doesn’t knock me out first.
Wine?
No, fuck that argument. If she wants to show up to the Olympics hungover, that’s on her. I’m too concerned about how to remedy the fact that my clothes are sitting in dirty water.
