Chapter 2
Each game day has a routine. It’s the key to my success, the secret sauce to keeping my career on fire and my opponents in the cold. It’s how I’ve dominated the ice and how I’ll continue to crush it with my new team. Having a routine on game days isn’t just crucial; it’s life or death. It keeps me laser-focused, mentally and physically wired, and ready to tear through anyone who dares stand in my way. Now, solidly in my first year with the Phoenix Red Wolves, I’m hell-bent on sticking to this routine and being the unyielding force no one sees coming. Get ready, Arizona!
I got traded here to play, not to warm the bench, so I’ve been clocking some serious ice time since the season kicked off. But don’t think for a second that I’m getting complacent. Greatness doesn’t come to those who wait. It comes to those who relentlessly chase it down, tear it apart, and make it their own. I’m gunning to shatter every record in the book this year, and I’ll stop at nothing to make it happen.
For every brutal minute I push myself toward excellence, I know my body needs to hit the reset button. Rest isn’t just part of the equation; it’s the foundation. I get that taking care of my body is crucial to dominating the rink. Waking up fully charged means I’m ready to crush it all over again. The ice is my domain, and I won’t be stopped. You can bet your bottom dollar that I’m bringing my A-game and then some when I hit that rink. Rest, recharge, and then unleash hell. That’s the name of the game.
With my routine fine tuned to absolute perfection, I am beyond confident that I can make a monumental impact with the Phoenix Red Wolves this year. I’m here to make my mark on this team and the entire league. But to do that, I’ve got a ritual so strict it could scare the hell out of anyone else. Wake up, go for a jog, and devour a breakfast of exactly 6 eggs with sauteed spinach and an English muffin with butter. Nothing else. Coffee on game days? Forget it. I’d be vibrating like a jackhammer if I did. Before heading to the rink, I get zen with some yoga, making every muscle limber and ready. Hell, I wish I could get laid as a stretch routine, but that would throw me off my game, and that is absolutely unacceptable.
When I get to the rink, I walk three laps around it, feeling the frigid air surround my body, before heading to the locker room. As the team gathers for our pregame meeting, I am laser-focused, absorbing every word Nolan Wilder, our coach, spits out. Communication and teamwork are equal parts of our success, so I make it a point to engage with my teammates, offering them a kind of wild-eyed encouragement. The only kind of support I can provide. I’m ready to tear through this season, and nothing—absolutely nothing—will stand in my way.
Once in the locker room, I jam in my headphones and crank metal core until my eardrums feel like they might explode. While blasting my brain with the heaviest shit, I tape my stick the same way-exactly-making sure every inch is wrapped to perfection. I visualize my plays and strategies, mentally gearing up to dominate the crease. When it’s time to get dressed, I adjust my cup beneath my lucky cactus briefs, pull on my matching socks, and then move on to my gear in a ritualistic, precise manner. Alternating between left and right pads, then my chest protector, and lastly my blocker.
After my stick is taped and I’m in my winning headspace, I put my helmet on and have a no-holds-barred conversation with myself in the mirror. I lock eyes with my masked reflection, talking myself up and praising my own unparalleled skills. Yeah, I’m cocky as hell—who’s gonna tell me otherwise? If anyone dares, I’ll hit them with the full force of my crazy eyes until they back off. By now, not many people bother me; they’ve learned that I’m a little bit insane.
When warm-ups start, I bond with each goalpost. I give them a determined pat, whispering sweet nothings to them. Always ending it with, “We gonna be standing on our head all night, eh buddy.”
After all the sweet nothings have been shared, I begin my stretches with my signature move—tapping my stick on the ice exactly 96 times, increasing in speed like a madman. Then, I transition to my stretches. Just as warm-ups are wrapping up, I let out a primal roar, one that would make even a lion think twice. It’s my way of waking up the inner beast and keeping the other team—and sometimes even the refs—on their toes. Honestly, no one is sure if I’m actually sane, but that’s what makes me unstoppable.
And just when peak crazy is coursing through my veins, the red lights dim, and the roar of the crowd vibrates against the plexiglass. From where I stand, the ice looks like a frozen lake beneath the spotlights. The game starts, and my world goes quiet. The puck drops, igniting a frenzy in front of me, but I don’t hear the sticks clash or feel the adrenaline surging through my team’s veins. All I feel is the calmness that washes over me, the stillness taking hold. The first period is a blur—pucks rocketing from the periphery, skates slicing through the ice, the reassuring thump of my blocker against a slapshot. Each save feels like a victory, each deflected attempt one step closer to a shutout. By the end of the second, my pads are soaked with sweat, and my arms are screaming, but the scoreboard remains mercifully blank. 0-0. One period left to write my name on this ice.
All I can hear and see is the ice around me and the puck as it moves a million miles an hour. The clock screams at me, the numbers flashing: 1:34 left in the third. With everything on the line in the final moments, I can’t lose sight now. Every rough check, every clapping puck feels like a hammered blow to my fraying nerves. Muscle memory takes over as my calm demeanor fades. Just like I imagined it, my practiced hands deflect everything thrown my way. So far, I haven’t let anyone score on me. We are up 2-0, and the shutout feels within my reach.
My gaze locks on the dumb, smirking forward skating circles. He swings back, the puck popping dangerously between his sticks, taunting me. He shoots. I dive, the puck a blur straight into my outstretched glove. Relief floods me. But my save isn’t enough. Any rest time is short-lived as the other team recovers the puck again, and it comes harshly back. My heart hammers in a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Where the hell are my defensemen? The net seems to expand, and the shot is so quick. A sickening clang. The puck ricochets off my cage straight into the goal, ending the game with a buzzer beater. My head snaps back in defeat. The puck nestles mockingly in the back of the net; the buzzer screams in cruel mockery. No longer a distant echo, the roar of the crowd grows louder as my calmness shatters. My shutout, our lead, all gone in a single, agonizing second. Well, Tabarnak!