Page 1 of Head Over Skates

1

OWEN

There’s nothing like the sound of the first few strides as my blades hit the ice. The smell of early morning, freshly smoothed sheet. The crisp, crunchy sound of my skates running across the glassy surface, echoing throughout the rink. The otherwise quiet solitude, alone in the arena long before my teammates arrive for morning skate.

This is what I need on game days. To erase the tension in my life outside this arena. To breathe in the silence. To be blessedly alone on the ice, even if only for a short while.

Except… I’m not alone. Mine aren’t the first tracks on the ice. I know these tracks aren’t from last night, because I was one of the last to leave. Other than the junior Zamboni driver. That tiny woman with honey-blonde hair, who reminds me more of a stray kitten than an ice technician. When she’s not wearing a beanie low on her head, hair pokes out of her high bun in all directions. And those whiskey-colored eyes, big and round. Just like that sad yellow kitty I found behind the dumpster when I was a kid. My parents didn’t let me keep it, though.

I’ve spoken to the Zamboni driver once, only once. Okay, it was more of a passing grunt when the other guys were giving her post-game high-fives. She took one look at my hand, hangingaloof at my side, gave me a cursory once-over, and popped her ear-buds in—shutting me out. To clarify, I was having a rotten day and just needed to get away from people before my chest caved in on me. Sometimes, just a little space will keep me from feeling out of control. Hence—my early morning solo skate.

Ever since that day, I hardly glance her way when she whirls onto the ice—that unruly bun barely visible over the massive snow tank of the resurfacer machine. I try not to stare at those pink cheeks and that slight upturned nose when the fans cheer for her just as much as they do the players. The way her little lips curl at the corners right before she dips her chin down to feign embarrassment.

Sometimes I wonder why she wears beanie caps or covers half her face with a scarf. Sometimes she hides under a baseball hat. But she always,alwayswears skin-tight black leggings, clinging to her fit, freakishly small form.

Last night, I could hear her cheerily saying goodnight to the arena manager and security team right after she’d cut the ice for the evening. Lights clanked off, and no one crossed past the boards after that.

That’s how I know I’m not the first on the ice this morning. The trails are light—barely visible. But they’re there.

I close my eyes and take a deep, cool breath.

It’s fine. Whoever it was is gone now, and I can still clear my head. If I don’t get in this time alone on the ice, tonight’s game will suffer. Focus. Mindset is key.

I unclench my fists and continue my ritual. Crossovers. Edge work. Pivots and turns. At this moment, right now… the ice is mine and mine alone.

But then I see movement from the corner of my eye. A streak of powder blue darting behind the player benches. And when I turn, it’s gone. Moments later, a heavy door clangs in the bowelsof the building. I come to an abrupt stop, spraying ice shavings everywhere.

What the heck? Who else would be here this early in the morning? Only the day security manager who let me in. But he always stays at his post, guarding the rear entrance.

Again, I try to ignore the distraction. I don’t own this arena. I’m not entitled to my privacy. I’m just a little—ya know—prickly when I don’t get it, that’s all.

After about fifteen minutes of too many thoughts cluttering up my head, I decide to hit the gym. I lift for over an hour, then steam off in the sauna before the rest of the team starts to trickle in. The heat is a calming contrast to the chill of the ice from earlier. By this time, I’m back at baseline, ready to go. It wasn’t an ideal morning, but I made due.

Sawyer, one of my wingers and best friend, wanders into the video room with that look about him. I can tell by the slight tinge under his eyes that he went out last night. Probably hooked up with some chick, drank too much, and didn’t get all the sleep he needed. He’s a stand-up guy, he really is. But he makes crappy choices. If we lose tonight, I’m gonna have strong words for him.

“You look like crap,” I say, half serious. “Pull yourself together before Coach sees you.”

He flops into the plush leather theater seat next to me. “I’m fine,” he grumbles, and pulls his cap further over his eyes, lazily sliding his butt to the edge of the seat.

The Toronto Titans are killing it this season. Mostly due to the extreme discipline Coach Knight expects of us on and off the ice.

So game day prep? It's a whole ritual, starting a day or even a couple before, depending on how big the showdown is gonna be. We hit the ice for practices and drills, get in those workouts, all that jazz. Gotta load up on veggies, loads of protein, and slow carbs the day before - that's like the magic formula. Helpsus bounce back from all the body-busting stuff and keeps our immune game strong.

Some guys hit the books or the screen after dinner, to try to clear their minds. Me? I'm into strategizing, sizing up the competition, getting in that headspace.

Everyone’s got their thing on pre-game day. But sleep? That’s not up for debate. It's the MVP of recovery and performance. Gotta nail that shut-eye, no excuses. Make sure that rest is on point!

But Sawyer. He thinks he’s invincible. One day, that devil-may-care attitude is gonna come back to bite him where the sun don’t shine.

“Just make sure you get some sleep this afternoon, okay? And drink some water.”

He gives me the side-eye, about to say something snarky. But then his lip curls and he slaps my knee. “I got this, Jablonski. I even brushed and flossed this morning, too.”

“Yeah, well you forgot deodorant. And get your paw off me before we show up in the gossip column.”

“Too late,” says a voice behind me. Griffin, the best goaltender I’ve ever known, slides over and takes the seat on my other side, nudging me with his elbow. He’s too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for his own good, and smiles so much, it gives me a headache.

“Turn it down a few notches, bro,” I say to him. “You’ve got all day.”

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