Chapter 6
My heart races, and my palms are clammy as I finish my pregame routine, but the uneasy feeling left over from that chaotic interaction with the beautifully irritating reporter lingers. The residual manifests itself as a knot in my stomach, making it hard to focus on anything else. Something about the interaction left me feeling completely off balance. I will literally talk to anyone. Normally, I have a knack for brushing off interactions like this. I can easily come up with witty comebacks or give someone a nickname without a second thought. But this time was different. Calling the reporter a barnacle felt more personal, more cutting than it should have. It was like I had struck a nerve, even though I couldn’t pinpoint why.
I find myself fixating on that single word, replaying it over and over again. I can’t shake it. It’s as if I opened a Pandora’s box within me, and now I can’t close it. Why is this bothering me so much? It’s frustrating, knowing that I have the ability to move on from this, to let it slide off me like water off a duck’s back. Yet, here I am, stuck in this mental loop, fixating on a simple nickname. As I continue with my routine, I try to distract myself, focusing on the physical aspects of my preparation. I focus on stretching my muscles, feeling the tension ease slightly as I move through each exercise. The physical exertion helps to ground myself and regain my balance. I know that I have to confront this uneasiness head-on. I’m not in my usual form. I’m off, and it infuriates me. The rage burns, driving me harder, but the distraction is too much to shake.
A few easy shots manage to get past me, ones I’d normally block without a second thought. I can see the disappointment in my teammates’ eyes, and feel the tension rising on the bench. The crowd’s roar intensifies, echoing through the rink. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The other team attacks with relentless force, their shots thundering toward me like cannonballs. My gloved hand twitches, but I can’t seem to snatch the puck out of midair anymore. It slips past me, a cruel taunt hitting the back of the net. My performance is shaky, and I feel it with every slip of the puck.
I’m pretty sure one of my own just called me a sieve… The tension is so intense I can feel it all the way from the bench, suffocating me in my net. I clench my fists, determined to turn the tide.
My every move causes my skates to carve into the ice, propelling me toward regaining my composure and focus. The opposing players dart toward me, hungry for another goal. But I stand tall, not giving up without a fight. The puck bounces off the blade of their sticks. My reflexes ignite, lightning coursing through my veins. I lunge, desperation fueling my every muscle. The sound of something hard hitting metal rings out as the puck ricochets off the post. Cheers erupt from the stands as adrenaline surges, but they aren’t loud enough to drown out doubts.
As the other team forward charged toward me again, my heart pounds in my chest. I lunge, desperately trying to block their shot, but my movements are clumsy, my timing off. The puck whizzes past me, mocking my feeble attempt. The frustration gnaws at me, making it even harder to concentrate. Any momentum that I make seems to be instantly lost as soon as the next puck comes flying my way.
The crowd groans in disappointment, their frustrated faces etched in my mind. I grit my teeth, determined to prove myself. The team’s defense rallies, blocking shots and hustling harder than ever to keep the game close, but it is clear to everyone that I’m not in my usual form. I push harder, faster, my legs burning with the effort. But each time the puck comes my way, I feel an unknown sense of dread. The harder I try to regain my focus, the more unsteady I feel, and the mounting frustration only makes things worse. My gloves feel heavy, my skates sluggish.
The frustration boils within me, a raging inferno threatening to consume me. Sweat pours down my face, blurring my vision. I wipe it away with a gloved hand, only to find the dampness clinging to me like a weight, dragging me even further down. My teammates fight valiantly, their cheers and shouts echoing in my ears. But their achievements only amplify my own shortcomings. The pressure mounts, suffocating me, making it impossible to breathe.
I glide across the ice. The puck approaches, its presence taunting me. I reach out, my gloved hand closing around it, but my grip falters, and it slips through my fingers. Doubt consumes me, whispering in my ear, telling me I’m not good enough. But I refuse to listen. I dig deep, finding a flicker of determination buried within.
I can hear the opposing players, each chirp slicing through my concentration like a hot knife.
“Hey, St. Germain, you forget how to play goalie or what? That net looks awfully big today, doesn’t it?” Their laughter echoes in my ears, mocking my every move.
“Nice save, St. Germain! Oh wait, you missed that one too!”
I grit my teeth, trying to block them out, but the frustration only grows.
“Maybe you should take up figure skating instead. At least then you wouldn’t have to stop any pucks!” Another jab, another shot to my already fragile focus and, I’ll admit, my ego. But amidst the chirping, my teammates’ voices try to cut through the noise.
“Focus up, Elliot! You’ve got this, buddy. Just shake it off.” Oren’s words are meant to steady me, but the anger is bubbling over.
“Keep your head in the game, E! We need you out here!” Vlad shouts. I know they are right, but the doubt is creeping in.
“Ignore those clowns, man. You’re the best goalie in the league. Just play your game!” Vlad says as he slides by. If only it were that simple.
“Elliot, just breathe and reset. We’ve got your back out here. Let’s show them what you’re made of.” Always the Captain, Ford’s voice is calm, reassuring, but I can feel the pressure mounting. I need to shake off the taunts, the frustration, and the doubt. I need to remember why I’m here. For the team, for the game, for the win.
The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve secured a narrow 5 to 4 victory. It’s a win, but it doesn’t feel like one. Despite my personal struggles, the team manages to pull ahead by one goal. As the adrenaline slowly subsides, my body begins to feel the effects of the intense emotions coursing through me. My heart pounds in my chest, its rapid rhythm echoing in my ears. The sweat-soaked fabric of my sweater clings uncomfortably to my skin, a reminder of the physical exertion I just endured.
I can feel the weight of every missed save. My muscles ache, a combination of the strain from making the few crucial saves I had. The frustration that gnaws at me manifests itself in the tightness of my clenched fists and the furrowed brow that creases my forehead. Every missed opportunity, every moment where I fell short, lingers in my mind, replaying like a broken record. Doubt and self-criticism swirl within me, clouding my thoughts and making it difficult to fully appreciate the victory we just achieved.
I take a deep breath, attempting to calm the racing thoughts and bring myself back to the present moment. The sound of my teammates celebrating and the echoing applause of the crowd finally registers, though they still feel distant. My teammates pat me on the back, their relief palpable, but I can’t shake my own demons gnawing at me. I know I need to do better. Deep down, I know that this win is a team effort, and my teammates understand that. They know the weight I carry as the last line of defense, and they appreciate the times I’ve come through for them. But as a perfectionist, I can’t help but hold myself to a higher standard. I strive for excellence, for flawlessness, and falling short of that ideal stings. There is one person to blame for this, that damn reporter with the big brown eyes and sweet ass.
I head straight to the locker room, avoiding eye contact with reporters. The last thing I need right now is to face their barrage of questions about my shaky performance. My mind is a storm of frustration and self-reproach, each step feeling heavier as I make my way down the tunnel. The roar of the crowd fades behind me, replaced by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant chatter of my teammates. I know the press will be eager to dissect every mistake, to pry into what’s going on in my head, but I can’t deal with that right now. I just want to get out of this gear and drown out the noise. Today wasn’t my best, and the sting of it clings to me like sweat. All I can think about is how I need to regroup, refocus, and come back stronger.
The locker room is full of relief but I can’t let it in. My own frustrations are too thick to penetrate. The guys are celebrating the win, but I can see the concern in their eyes. They’re happy we pulled it off, but they know I wasn’t on my game tonight. I take my time, deliberately slow, as I peel off my gear, each piece hitting the floor with a dull thud. Stripping off my gear feels like shedding a layer of failure, mirroring the disappointment weighing down on me. My body aches, not just from the physical strain but from the weight of knowing I let everyone down. The postgame interview can wait. I’m in no rush to face the questions I know are coming. My teammates give me space, a silent acknowledgment of my need to process and regroup. As the adrenaline fades, I can feel the sting of every missed save, every moment where I fell short. Tonight was rough, but I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.
I sit on the bench, lost in my thoughts, replaying the game over and over in my mind. The cheers from the crowd outside echo through the walls, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere in the locker room. I can’t help but feel responsible for our close call tonight. My teammates approach me cautiously, their eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. They know how hard I worked to get to this point, the countless hours of training and sacrifice.
Oren, placing a hand on my shoulder, says, “Tough break, man. We know you gave it your all.”
“Yeah, we could see how much effort you put into preparing for this.” Vlad gives me a sympathetic look, “We all have games like this, dude.”
Ford ends their sympathy train with, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We win as a team, and we lose as a team.”
But tonight, it wasn’t enough. I let my guard down, and it almost cost us.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the disappointment that threatens to consume me. This hollow victory will serve as a wake-up call, a reminder of the relentless dedication required to excel in this sport. I won’t let it break me. I won’t let it define me. Slowly, I rise from the bench, stripping the rest of my clothes. My muscles ache, and my mind buzzes with the repetitious replay of every missed save, every sloppy move. I drag myself to the showers, hoping the hot water will wash away the frustration clinging to me. The steam rises, and I let it envelop me, trying to clear my mind and reset. But the grumpy funk is stubborn, sticking to me like a second skin.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pummel my back, and force myself to breathe deeply. Tomorrow is a new day, and I need to shake this off, but right now, the weight of tonight’s performance is all-consuming. I know I have to face the postgame interview. The questions will be tough, probing into my mistakes and shortcomings. But I won’t shy away from them. I will own up to my performance and use it as fuel to improve.
I step out of the shower, towel slung around my waist, and for a moment, the silence feels like a balm to my frayed nerves. The locker room is deserted, just the way I like it after a game like this. I take a deep breath, starting to feel a hint of relief, a slight lift in my mood. But then, the door flies open with a bang, shattering the peace. I turn my head toward the sudden intrusion, my heart racing and my muscles tensing. Standing in the doorway is that damned reporter, eyes wide and full of that damned unrelenting energy. My mood plummets instantly. I freeze, water dripping from my hair, my moment of solitude abruptly stolen.
“Oh, pour l'amour des Tabarnak!” I shout at her. What the hell is she doing here? My frustration boils back to the surface as I glare at her, feeling like I can’t catch a break even in the last moments of a brutal day. The towel around my waist suddenly feels inadequate, as if it can’t shield me from her.