Page 12 of Slap Shot Daddies

I can feel it again: a slow, insidious feeling of burnout creeping around my ribs like a too-tight jersey constricting my breath. Each sprint, each stop-and-start drill, each fervent push only deepens the persistent ache that has been steadily growing in my chest.

It's not a physical pain. My body remains unscathed.

Instead, it's my mind that's fraying, like old, worn-out threads barely holding together.

Hockey is my life. It has been since I was a kid—a constant companion and defining force.

But now, for the first time, a shadow of doubt flickers in my thoughts, making me question whether it's enough. I shake these unsettling thoughts away, willing myself back into the rhythm of the drills.

A hard pass echoes across the ice, the sound crisp and sharp. I sprint toward the boards, the cold air biting against my skin.

A quick pivot sends ice shavings flying, and I chase the puck with determination. I shoot, the puck slicing through the air with precision.

It should feel exhilarating.

It should feel like coming home.

Instead, a restless energy simmers beneath my skin, refusing to settle. Ambrose glides up beside me during a water break, expertly twisting the cap off his bottle with a practiced flick.

“You always this miserable, or is today special?” he quips, a teasing smirk playing on his lips before he takes a long, leisurely sip.

I force out a dry laugh, swiping a hand across my damp forehead to clear away the glistening beads of sweat.

“I’m fine,” I reply, trying to sound convincing.

But truthfully, I’m not, and I’m determined to keep that buried from everyone else.

I desperately need a break, a genuine escape from this relentless cycle.

But that’s a distant dream, far from reality for the foreseeable future.

The truth is, I’m itching to escape. Not entirely from hockey, but from the monotonous routine, the relentless schedule that has dictated my life since the day I was drafted. I often reminisce about the last time I truly felt liberated.

It was during an off-season, backpacking through Europe, with no agenda but exploration. I remember meandering downthe ancient cobblestone streets of Italy, the warm sun on my face, indulging in the most exquisite pasta I had ever tasted.

I swam in the crystal-clear waters of the Mediterranean, the salt clinging to my skin, and spent evenings drinking with strangers in bustling hostels, people who didn’t care in the slightest about hockey.

For once, I wasn’t Braden Gallagher, the Right Wing for the Marauders.

I was simply…me.

I yearn for that once more.

I crave the adventure, the electrifying thrill of something new, the exhilarating sensation of waking up in a place where expectations don't weigh heavily on my shoulders.

But it's the heart of the season now. No vanishing into the unknown of a foreign land, no spontaneous road trips to the majestic mountains, or last-minute camping weekends under a canopy of stars.

I roll my shoulders, attempting to shrug off the mounting frustration as Coach's piercing whistle echoes through the chilly air of the rink. His deep, authoritative voice booms across the ice, resonating with determination.

"All right, boys," he calls out, the sound rippling through the space, "Good work today. Game day’s approaching fast. Rest up, focus up."

The team glides off, their skates slicing through the ice as they make their way toward the locker room. I linger for a moment, my eyes drawn upward, tracing the lines of the rafters that frame the arena.

I need to find a way to balance the exhilarating demands of hockey with the restless part of me that yearns for something more.

Deep in thought I stroll down the hallway toward the locker room.

That's when I unexpectedly collide with someone.

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