Page 21 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
I nodded, managing a half-smile. “You’re welcome.” My eyes flicked to the balcony, then back to my empty coffee mug.
She slipped toward the balcony, bare feet soundless on the floor. Solitude would have to wait. For some reason, I didn’t mind.
Ice level. Cold air in my face. Nets set.
Mac gave me a nod as I passed him on the way to the locker room. “You good, man? You’ve got that ‘I just got drafted' grin on your face.”
I bumped his shoulder with my bag. “Just feeling it today. Let’s light it up.”
During stretch, Naks leaned over. “You’re usually ice cold in the mornings. New coffee? Or a new cooking book?”
I shook my head. “Neither. Just...good energy, I guess.”
I sat on the bench, laced my knee pads, then wrapped my legs in the chest protector like armor. Gloves go last. It’s the closest thing to a weapon I’ve got.
Once we hit the ice, the chatter started, friendly, quick.
“That pass had more wobble than my grandma’s Jell-O.”
“Nice shot, Mac. You aiming for the Zamboni or just clearing snow?”
The chirps continued to fly, half of them ridiculous, all of them familiar. Still, I chuckled. These guys battle hard in front of me. I can listen to these chirps on repeat.
I started with crease warmups, shuffle right, stop, butterfly, recover. Shuffle left, stop, slide post-to-post. I could feel the burn right away: inner thighs tightening, calves biting at me. Sweat was already forming under my helmet.
Then came the rapid-fire rebound drills. Three shooters at different angles — low pad shots, blocker-side wristers, one sneaky backhand toward the five-hole. My only job: control the rebound, kill the second chance. I kick one out clean, it lands just outside the crease. Shooter swipes at it, but I read the angle and cover with the glove.
Coach changes it up with wraparound scenarios. I feel the puck whip around the boards, disappearing behind me for a split second. I drop low and slam my outside leg flat against the post, toe flush to the ice. My inside knee tucks underneath as I lean into the pipe, chest angled, shoulder sealed tight. I press in, stick blade laid flat across the crease like a steel shield, guarding against any jam play. I can hear skates carving behind me, but I’ve got every inch locked down. Eyes locked, lungs steady. I’m balanced, coiled, ready to explode laterally if they try to wrap it.
We finish with power-play drills. Fast puck movement, screens in front, constant traffic. My crease is chaos. I battle to find the puck through three bodies, track the release, and make the low save with my pad.
Coach had us running a power play cycle, and I could hear laughs when I snagged Mac’s top-shelf attempt with my glove. “Bro’s got magnets in that mitt today,” someone shouted.
As we stepped off the ice, Mac tossed a Gatorade toward me. “Whatever mood you’re in, bottle it. We’ll need it in April.”
I walked out with my bag. AHL jerseys filing in for the 3 p.m. slot.
Good practice
Rebounds died, edges held, reads on time. Could’ve been sleep. Could’ve been the skate. Or the morning. Four milks for one person and her smile.
Doing something for someone flips a switch. We do hospital visits every season. There’s a reason. Guys come back looser, sharper.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment.
Quiet.
No sounds from the kitchen. No flicker of movement from the balcony. No one sided phone conversations.
I dropped my keys into the basket by the front door and drifted toward the balcony. I glanced through the glass. Looked left, then right.
I let out a breath then turned back to the kitchen.
A note waited on the counter, propped against the fruit bowl in her careful handwriting.
Off to babysitting. Apt 2804. I don’t have your cell number. Here is mine. Text me when you’re back. I can let you know our pizza order. Thanks again. C.
I picked it up. I read it twice. My mouth tugged at the corners.
