Chapter 12
After the incident with Ziggy, I didn't give her a second thought. I couldn’t. She’s a blip on my radar, an annoyance that was dealt with and moved past. Luckily, she didn’t get me or herself arrested. But she did manage to throw up all over me directly in front of a bunch of people who recognized me. So naturally, those ill-timed photos are circulating around social media in rapid succession. I'm pretty sure they even talked about it on ESPN by way of TMZ. Great, just great. As if I didn't already have enough bad press floating around me after the last game, I now get to deal with this. I guess it's lucky for Ziggy; you can't tell who she is in the photos. They are all me. Covered in vomit.
Ziggy is a thing of the past, a fleeting troublemaker I have no intention of dwelling on. My focus is solely on the next game against the Sharks. Every save, every drill, every movement has to be perfect. I start with agility drills, pushing my reflexes to the limit with rapid-fire pucks. Then come the endurance training and skating suicides until my legs burn. It fucking sucks, but I have to do it. From there, I move to resistance exercises to work on my power.
Mock me if you want. I don't care, but yoga has always been part of my game-day routine. It keeps me nimble, ready to move, flexible. I power through my stretching routines, making sure I can move in any direction and reach any shot, no matter how impossible. The hardest part of my entire focus routine is getting my mind right. Mental training is just as crucial. Beyond just visualizing every possible scenario and game play in my head until I know everything by heart, I have to be able to block out the distractions and the noise and keep my mind in the zone. I did a piss poor job of that during the last game, and I can’t do that again. Every session is about refining my skills and maintaining my edge. There is no room for error, no time for distractions.
I have so much riding on this game. I am five games away from breaking the record for the most consecutive games won by a goalie, and I’m not about to let anything—or anyone—distract me. The pressure is tough, but it makes me want to succeed, driving me to push harder in every training session. Every game is one step closer to making history. I can’t afford any slip-ups, I have to be razor sharp. Everything I've worked for, everything I've sacrificed, is on the line. This record is more than just numbers; it’s the first stop on my career path, the next step, and I am determined to claim it.
We fly out to Miami, the city buzzing with its usual energy. Too bad we can't enjoy it, because there is no time for distraction. The sticky air hits us the moment we land. We head straight to the rink for a quick practice, working off the stiffness from the flight and getting a feel for the ice. The session is brief but productive, enough to get our blood pumping and our minds sharp. Afterward, we go to a team dinner at a nearby restaurant—steak and pasta, not my usual but it will do. We crack jokes and bond over our shared love for the game. But it’s more than that. We also seriously discuss our strategy for tomorrow's game. Aware of the significance of this game, we analyze our opponents' strengths and weaknesses and brainstorm and debate the best approach to secure victory. The combination of laughter, jokes, and strategic discussions creates a balanced and focused environment, leaving more than just me determined to give it my absolute best tomorrow.
After the team dinner, we all return to the hotel. My room calls to me to begin my night-before ritual, a mix of habits and superstitions that keep me at the top of my game. First, I unpack my bag in a certain order, laying out my outfit for tomorrow, exactly how I will put it on. My suit, matching briefs and socks, shoes, and even my watch all have designated spots. This organization provides a strange sense of calm. Next, I do a series of stretches, a blend of yoga and hockey-specific movements to keep my muscles loose and my mind focused. I follow this with a hot as hell shower, the burning water loosening my muscles and keeping me limber. Before completely getting out of the shower, I step outside the stream of water, turn the handle, making it as cold as possible, and plunge my head underneath. The shock of the water sharpens my senses before bed.
I prefer to sleep naked but being in a hotel opens up some challenges to that. Like my bare ass touching hotel surfaces. Once dressed in comfortable sleep shorts, I sit on the floor and visualize the game. I picture myself making every save, the roar of the crowd, and the thrill of the win. I replay past victories in my mind, fortifying my confidence. After winning the game in my mind, I spend exactly 12 minutes watching game footage of our opponents, noting their patterns and tendencies. The last thing I do before bed is call my old mentor for a quick pep talk. His words are a part of my ritual, a grounding force before every game. By the time I crawl into bed, my mind is buzzing with readiness. I fall asleep to the sound of white noise, the last piece of my ritual, ensuring I'm in the best mental and physical state for the game ahead. Nothing can break my focus.
I wake up early on the morning of the game, my body already humming with anticipation. I shower and dress in the perfectly arranged suit, the sharp lines and dark fabric forming my composure. The suit is part of my armor, a psychological trick, the edge that helps me transition from the hotel's comfort to the rink's intensity. I adjust my tie in the mirror, making sure every detail is perfect before grabbing what I need and heading out. The bus ride to the rink is quiet. The whole team in the zone, the city of Miami just starting to stir around us as I focus inward, building the mental fortitude needed for my routine to carry me through to game time. I need that structure to calm the chaos in my mind and focus on what matters: winning.
The first two periods of the game are incredible. I’m in the zone, making save after save, feeling unbeatable. Every shot that comes my way is met with swift, decisive action. The puck seems to move in slow motion, giving me all the time I need to position myself perfectly. The crowd roars with every stop, their energy surging through me and driving me to perform even better. My teammates feed off the energy, pushing harder and playing smarter. Our defense is rock solid, and the offense is relentless, creating chances and keeping the pressure on. The score is tight, but we have the momentum. I can practically taste the victory that’ll bring me one step closer to the record. The excitement even oozes over into the bench. Every player is fully engaged and committed to seeing this through. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is intoxicating, a powerful reminder of why I love this game. Each moment on the ice feels like a step closer to history, and I will achieve it.
During the second intermission, I head to the locker room, sweat dripping down my face and adrenaline coursing through my veins. That's when I see her. Ziggy, standing in the hallway with clipboard in hand, eyes narrowed at me like I am enemy number one. Her glare, ice cold, is filled with an accusation that makes my blood boil. Who does she think she is, acting like I’m the bad guy here?
My anger for her surges. I gave my all on the ice, pushing myself to the limit, and now she has the audacity to cop an attitude over some bullshit? I don't think so. I wipe the sweat off my brow, trying to compose myself before addressing her.
"What's your problem?" I ask, my voice laced with irritation.
Ziggy doesn’t back down, her gaze unwavering. "You know exactly what my problem is," she retorts, her tone dripping with condescension. I clench my fists, struggling to keep my composure. I should have left her ass drunk and stumbling around Arizona. I didn't have to sacrifice my night, my time, and my energy fighting her all the way to the safety of her hotel. And now, she has the nerve to stand here and point fingers at me?
"Don't fucking think for one second that I did anything wrong here," I spit in defiance. "I could have left you out there to fend for yourself, but I didn't. I certainly got nothing but a viral vomit-covered photo out of it."
Her expression becomes sharper, the accusation still lingering in her eyes. "I didn't need your help!" she says, her voice tinged with a hint of disappointment. "All you did was manhandle me all across town. Completely inappropriate!"
I bristle at her words, feeling the frustration boil over. There is no way I am in the wrong here, am I? Drunk dudes were all over her; she could barely stand. But now, her words make me question everything. Before I can respond, Coach Wilder's voice booms through the hallway, calling us back to the ice. I shoot her one last angry look. I don't need her judgment or doubt. There isn't a chicken's dick chance in hell that I am going to let her get to me now. Fuck that. I stomp away from her, back out to the ice to finish this. The game isn’t over yet, and I’m ready to prove myself, not to everyone else, but to one specific person who doubts me.
Seeing Ziggy during the break messed me up more than I'd like to admit. As much as it pisses me off to not be at my best, my focus shattered the moment our eyes met, and all I can think about is her accusing glare. I try to shake it off, but it’s like a virus in my brain. The final period is a disaster. No matter how hard I try to regain my composure, I can’t get back in the zone. I get scored on twice back-to-back, each one a knife to my pride. With less than five minutes left, the Sharks slip another one past me. Desperation sets in, and Coach Wilder pulls me for an extra attacker. It is our last-ditch effort to even the score. But it's too late.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, we lose. Defeat settles into my skin, suffocating and inescapable. I know it’s my fault. I let Ziggy get under my skin, and it cost us the game. It cost me a record-breaking season. The record, once so tantalizingly close, now feels further away than ever. And at this rate, there is no way I can get it back. I feel the disappointed looks of my teammates on me, their silence deafening in comparison to the roaring crowd just moments before.
As I sit on my bench in the locker room, the blame gnaws at me. Ziggy is the reason I faltered. Her incessant presence, her infuriating questions, and the way she gets under my skin ruined me. I can’t shake her image from my mind, her smug expression lingering like a curse. She is the reason I failed to protect the net, the reason our record-breaking streak was shattered. The anger boils within me, simmering just below the surface. This loss isn’t just on me; it’s on her. She ruined me, and the bitter taste of that realization is something I can’t wash away.