23. LANE
LANE
The bus ride should’ve knocked the nerves out of me. A few hours of staring out the window, earbuds in, pretending to nap while the guys laughed and chirped at each other across the aisle. But by the time we rolled into Holt University in Ohio, my stomach was still twisted into knots.
At least the opening game isn’t with my old team—that would be some cruel shit from the universe. But even being back in this state brings a wave of anxiety I’m trying to tame.
First game. New team. My chance to prove I belong here.
I’m jealous at how comfortable my team is with each other. No amount of skill or talent makes up for time spent together.
It’s only a few minutes before the puck drops. We’re huddled around the bench as Coach gives his last pump-up speech. His voice is steady, the intentional type that makes you want to skate through walls.
“Simple hockey, boys. Fast shifts, smart plays. Trust each other, trust the system. We’ve planned for this.”
The guys nod along, tapping sticks, eyes burning. I try to match them, but my stomach is doing flips. My gloves are already damp.
We put our hands in, yell our phrase, “Better, not bitter,” and then Coach has a hand on my shoulder, keeping me back.
“Maxwell. You good?”
I force a nod, clear my throat. “Yeah. Ready to go.”
The words sound stronger than I actually feel. My chest is tight, my legs buzzing, like I’m about to step into the wrong spotlight.
“Alright then,” Coach says, back to business. “Let’s set the tone.”
The horn sounds. The guys surge toward the gate. I skate with them, praying no one can hear how loud my heart is pounding.
“Hey,” Leo calls, giving me a bump as he skates by. He’s grinning as always, like nerves are a foreign language. “Loosen up. First game jitters, that’s all.”
I nod, but it’s a lie. For the first time in a long time, I feel unprepared. When it comes to hockey, I’m always anticipating the next thing. Whether it’s a shift, defensive set, or opponent, it’s like my body always knows what’s going to come next. That’s why I’ve been so fucking hard to beat.
When the puck drops, it only gets worse. First shift, I’m late for the forecheck. I miss the passing lane, watch their defenseman skate it clean out of the zone. My line gets trapped.
Second shift, I actually get the puck on my stick in the slot. Wide open look. And I fan. Just… whiff. The sound of the other team’s bench howling is louder than the crowd.
“Shake it off,” Leo insists when I get back to the bench, slapping my shoulder pad. “Next one’s yours.”
But the next one isn’t mine. Or the one after that. I jump on for a defensive shift, lose my man in the corner, and watch him bury one past our goalie. My fault. I know it, he knows it, the guys on the bench know it.
My legs feel like fucking traitors. It’s like they forget how to skate. Every stride drags. Every puck I touch rattles off my stick like it doesn’t want to be near me. It’s like practice all over again—I can feel the team's frustration. Believe me, I’d feel the same if it were the other way around.
Every time I fuck something up, the Holt fans fill the arena with cheers. I’ve given them plenty of chances to cheer against us and I feel like an asshole.
By the third period, I’ve screwed enough offensive chances to make me want to crawl under the boards.
The passes don’t connect, my timing is off, and every mistake feels like it’s painted in neon for everyone to see.
The student section behind our bench is on me, too—heckling, laughing every time I flub a touch.
When the final buzzer finally sounds, Otters winning 4-2, I’ve never been more relieved.
I was horrific tonight but at least we didn’t lose.
Helmets and gloves slap in celebration, sticks bang the boards.
Everyone’s buzzing—everyone but me. I skate off with my head down, the taste of rust in my mouth.
Troy skates to me, clapping his hand on my back. I’m expecting him to give me some bullshit pep talk, but instead he says, “Good news is you can’t play much worse than that.”
And he’s fucking right.
We may have won, but it sure as hell wasn’t because of me. My team knows it. The coaches know it.
Believe me, I know it.