1. Danny
ONE
DANNY
It’s almost game time.
My stick is freshly taped. I stretched, then warmed up on the bike.
I’ve run through everything the coaches said during practices this week a dozen times, committing it to memory.
I prepped on my own as well—watching more game film, studying the competition, analyzing every single player’s strengths and weaknesses.
I’m as ready as I can be. All that’s left is to win.
“You good?” My buddy Conrad Shepard, or Shep as we call him, takes a seat next to me in front of his stall and laces his skates.
I blink, clearing my thoughts, and smile at him. “Yeah. You?”
He nods.
All around the room, my teammates are gearing up before we take the ice for warmups.
Everyone has their routine, some more elaborate than others.
From listening to a curated playlist to wearing the same boxers.
Our goalie, August Penn, has a specific watch he wears on game days and he sets it in the same spot in his locker before he gets dressed.
Nick Galaxy, the Moonshot captain, has a picture of his son in his locker and another that he carries with him when we travel.
No one really talks about these things, but we all have our superstitions.
I stand and pull my jersey off the hanger and over my head. Goosebumps dot my arms every single time I put it on. It isn’t part of the ritual, but if it didn’t happen, I’d be concerned. The awe and joy of what it represents is as fresh today as it was the first time I wore it.
Once I’m fully dressed, but before I put on my helmet and grab my stick, I pull today’s banana from my bag.
“Is it going to be a good game?” Shep asks, fighting a smile.
He’s one of the only guys I know who doesn’t have any superstitions around his routine.
I sit back down and peel my favorite fruit. I don’t know when it started or how it became a thing, but bananas on game days are the only must-have on my list.
“It’s been rough since you moved out,” I tell him honestly. Shep just moved in with his fiancée, Whitney, which is great for him, but he bought our groceries when we were roommates, and I can’t seem to pick produce as well as him. And as such, I’ve been in the worst scoring slump of my career.
“You want just a hint of green in the color if you’re buying a day or two before you’re going to eat them or go for bright yellow if you’re shopping on the day of the game.”
I know all of this, but I still think the bananas tasted better when he selected them.
I bite into the banana. It’s a little tough, not quite ripe, but it’s sweet and a good size – yes, size absolutely matters.
“I’d give it a six,” I tell him as I shove the last bite into my mouth. The rating equates to how well I’m likely to perform. The higher the rating of the banana, the better I play. We’re getting down to the wire in the season where every game counts. I want every banana to be at least an eight.
He stands and nods. “I’ll take it. Your six is other people’s nine.”
“Not lately.”
“For such a smart guy, it’s amazing to me how much weight you put behind a banana.”
“Superstitions are rooted in psychology. Look at the research. It’s called accidental conditioning.”
“The name tells me everything I need to know.”
I shake my head. “They boost confidence and have a calming effect.”
“Yeah, you seem real calm.”
I flip him off.
He chuckles. “You don’t need the perfect banana. You need a win.”
I hum my disagreement. A team win doesn’t help this particular problem. We have other guys that are stepping up while I’m struggling, but if we’re going to win the cup this year, they’re going to need me to play the way I know I can.
“Remember when I was stressed about asking out Whitney a second time after our disastrous first date and you told me we needed to change the outcomes, so I wasn’t planning for worst-case scenarios?” he asks, looking serious, like he’s about to make a very important point.
“Vaguely.”
His eyes widen, and he looks at me expectantly.
“It isn’t the same thing.” I toss the peel and grab my helmet and stick. “Hey, do you think you could start buying my bananas again?”
“Seriously?”
“I’ll pay.”
Shep lets out a heavy sigh and walks off.
“Is that a yes?” I call after him.
The home crowd is loud and excited tonight.
The first two periods were tough, but we’re up two goals as we take the ice for the third.
I’ve had two shots on goal, but my only contribution has been getting the puck down the ice and forcing defenders to cover me.
They might know that I’m cold, but everyone knows a slump can end at any moment. I’m hoping the end of mine is imminent.
“You’re getting good looks. Keep at it.” Shep holds up a fist as we skate out.
I tap my fist to his, but I don’t feel quite as optimistic as he does.
I scan the stands, looking for inspiration, smiling at the white and purple jerseys everywhere. I love everything about the vibe playing in front of a home crowd. The noise, the energy, all of it. It fuels me. My gaze snags on a brunette a few rows up on the club level.
“Tell me, do you play better when Whitney is here?” I ask my buddy, pulling my stare from his fiancée.
He glances up to the spot where she sits. “Yeah, of course. I love it when she comes.”
“So would you say if you wanted to play your best, you’d need her to be in attendance?”
“I see what you’re doing, but Whitney is not a banana.”
“You’re right. She isn’t nearly as lucky.” I wink, then look back at the crowd. My stare drifts to the woman sitting beside Whitney.
She’s cute. Light brown hair that hangs just past her shoulders. She stands out in a crowd of hardcore hockey fans. I’m not sure what it is. Her perfect posture, maybe. Or it could be the way her stare darts around like she isn’t sure she should be here.
Whitney turns and says something to her, and the woman’s face lights up with a smile that has goosebumps dotting my arms for the second time today.
I know that smile.
The face-off is seconds from starting, but I move from position to stand closer to Shep.
“Hey, the woman sitting with Whitney—”
Before I can finish the sentence, he narrows his gaze at me. “No. Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I know that look. You cannot hit on my fiancée’s friend.”
“No, that isn’t it.” I mean under normal circumstances, yeah, I can’t believe he was holding out on me. She’s beautiful. She was six years ago, and she is now. “I know her. We went to high school together.”
“Really?” Shep glances back at the two women. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
His brows scrunch together. “I think you’re mistaken. She works with Whitney at the high school.”
“Yeah?” Excitement courses through me. That means she lives here. “Huh. What are the odds we both ended up in Moonshot?”
I’m not that far from home, a few hours, but it’s still wild to think we both landed here at the same time.
Conrad’s gaze is still all skepticism as he studies me. “I don’t know, man. Are you really sure? Her name is Slo—”
“Sloane Wingrove.” I nod as I scan the crowd again, finding her and smiling.
What are you doing here, Sloane?