Page 119 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Yeah, easier said than done.
When your body’s turned into a moody ex that might ghost you without warning, trust gets . . . complicated. My fingers tighten, tugging the laces until my palms ache, threading each loop tighter, pressing down the shaky part of me that wants to crack wide open.
Because this? This moment—I can own it.
I can’t control the ice, can’t control the puck taking a weird bounce, or some jackass defenseman deciding my knee looks like a personal vendetta.
But I can control how hard I pull these laces.
How even my breathing stays when my brain’s screaming like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
How stubbornly I hold onto believing in myself when it would be much easier to spiral.
Double knot.
Tug.
Sit back.
Breathe.
Today, I’m choosing to trust the guy who fought his way back here. Even if some parts of me still want to flinch.
I close my eyes for half a second and picture it:
My skates cutting clean across the ice.
My stick snapping the puck across the rink like second nature.
Breathe in and out.
Coach keeps talking—last reminders, last corrections. This is what I fought for. The surgeries. The endless rehab sessions. The days I thought I’d never get back here.
This is what I bled for, and I’m not wasting it.
Not today and not ever again.
I finish tying the second skate, yanking the laces tight enough to bite into my palms.
The final knot feels like locking myself in—no turning back now. I sit there for a second longer, staring down at my hands. The room swells louder around me—sticks clashing, gloves slapping, someone barking out a pregame chirp about asses getting kicked—but I stay still.
For the first time since I got hurt, I’m not thinking about what I lost but about what I’m about to fucking take back.
My spot.
My future.
And if I’m lucky, I might get the girl: my girl—and the real dream.
I coast into the neutral zone, letting the cold slice through my lungs, clean and sharp. My blades carve tight, confident lines across the ice, the scrape of steel against frozen ground a sound I’ve missed more than I want to admit. My stick taps a rhythm into the ice—steady, sure. A promise to myself. This rink. This game. My home.
Leif nudges a puck out toward me with the blade of his stick—quick, casual, the way he always does when he’s in a good mood. The puck slides across the ice like an invitation.
I don’t just catch it.
I roll into a tight pivot, carving a clean arc across the ice, and scoop the puck up with a flick of my wrist. It spins once before landing dead on the tape of my stick, so smooth it almost feels like a flex. Muscle memory, pure and sweet. Maybe a little cocky.Definitelya little cocky. A few guys on the bench bark out cheers, banging sticks against the boards like proud, feral idiots, and even though a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth, I keep my head down and lock my focus back where it belongs. I’m not here to show off. I’m here to take everything back—the months lost, the faith I almost let slip through my fingers, the part of me that never really belonged anywhere except here.
Puck drop comes fast. No time to overthink. I blast off the line, legs churning hard enough to burn, lungs dragging in coldair that scratches the back of my throat. The rink fades until there’s nothing but movement and grit and the single-minded hunger to take what’s mine. A pass slices across the ice. I catch it clean, stick and puck moving like they’ve been waiting for this reunion, and pivot hard into the offensive zone. A defender shadows me, crowding close, stick hacking at my gloves. Doesn’t matter. I cut left, fake right, dig in deep, and fire.
