Page 59 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
Utter chaos. And all three of them looked like they wouldn’t trade it for anything. I stared at the picture. Then saved it.
***
I woke before the alarm. Years of road trips trained my body to know when it was time. The hotel room was quiet, dim, the blackout curtains doing their job. I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling.
Game day.
I sat up, cracked the curtain and looked out. Gray skies. A few early risers on the sidewalk. The arena just visible down the block.
Downstairs, the lobby was quiet. A few guys were already there, earbuds in, nodding silently. No one talked much on game mornings. Not until after the skate.
I stuck to what worked: two eggs, a slice of whole grain toast, and my smoothies. I mixed up my usual, banana, oats, almond milk, and a scoop of vanilla whey. The shaker bottle had seen more cities than most passports.
After breakfast, I headed back up to my room. The team bus wouldn’t leave for another hour. I pulled out the book Claire had recommended, and settled into the armchair by the window. She’d said the pacing was slow at first. She was right.
When my phone buzzed with the team alert, I packed up, grabbed my gear, and made my way down. The bus was already idling out front, players filing in with the same quiet focus.
The ice was fresh, untouched. I stepped out of the tunnel and onto the surface, the familiar crunch of blades underfoot. Nofans. Just the team, the coaches, and the quiet rhythm of pre-game movement.
I took a few slow laps, stretching out the stiffness. No hard drills. Just line rushes, light shots, a few crease movements to get my angles right.
Chappy was buzzing, chatting with the goalie coach, trying to soak up every second. I let him. That hunger was good. Necessary. But I’d earned my calm.
A few shots came in, low blockers, quick wristers from the slot. I absorbed them cleanly, no rebounds. Just enough to feel the puck. Just enough to remind my body what it was here to do.
After twenty minutes, I skated off, towel around my neck, nodding to the equipment manager. I was locked in.
The bus pulled into the loading dock just before five. I stepped off into the concrete hush, that always settled around visiting teams. No fans, no music, just the low rumble of gear carts.
Different locker room. Same routine. Stick first, fresh tape, blade curve checked. Pads laid out in order. I changed into my base layer and then headed to the hallway for the wall drill. Ten minutes with the racquetball, no more. Toss, catch, toss.
Someone walked past, cracking a joke about the visitor’s room. I didn’t laugh. Just caught the ball, held it, and looked at my wrist. 5:30. At home, I’d be setting pans on the stove. Garlic, maybe. Or shallots, if I felt like showing off. Claire would drift in, claim she didn’t want anything, then steal bites from the pan.
I thought of her line about microwave freedom, and smiled.
Back in the locker room, I grabbed my phone. Typed out a message. Stared at it for a second, then hit send.
Please tell me you’re not nuking leftovers directly from the plastic container.
The reply came faster than I expected.
Absolutely not. I’m using the fine china tonight.
Don’t worry. It’s actually your microwave safe dinner plates.
Dining table and everything. I’m practically a grown-up.
I exhaled, something between a laugh and a breath.
For a second, it almost felt like I was home.
The Picture
Laim
The bus ride from the airport back to the Blades' arena always seemed to be the longest part of the trip.
I shifted in my seat, elbow against the window, and let my gaze fall to my phone. The home screen lit up. There it was, top right corner of the carousel. The photo Claire had sent from their kitchen chaos.
