Page 36 of Pucking Wild

“Sir, you need to find your seat,” says the flight attendant.

“I gotta piss,” I say, shoving at the lavatory door.

“Sir, you’ll need to wait—”

I don’t let her finish. I just squish myself inside the tiny lavatory and snap the door shut. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror, I replay the memo for a third damn time.

“Hey, Ryan. I know you’re probably already in the air, but you can listen to this when you land,” comes MK’s voice through my earbud. “You got it! The endorsement deal is all yours, my friend. Nike is sending over the preliminary contract later today. You’re looking at a tidy one mil before taxes, paid out in installments, of course. I sent over all the particulars in an email, but you can always call me when you land. Congrats!”

The message ends, and I just stand there, looking at my reflection. My white dress shirt is unbuttoned, collar loose. My blond curls are tucked behind my ears, slicked down with styling gel. I haven’t shaved in a couple days—too busy with my mom and sister in town for the holidays—but I like the effect.

I look older. When did this happen? I used to look in the mirror and always just see a young hockey bro. The tourney t-shirts and backwards caps, the stupid shaggy flow.

I smirk. The man in the mirror smirks back at me. He has my eyes. A man with a multi-million-dollar NHL contract. A man who wears a bespoke suit and Tom Ford shoes with a TAG Heuer Monaco-style chronograph on his wrist. A man who just landed a million-dollar endorsement deal with Nike.

My smile widens as I feel my heart race.

“I did it,” I say at my reflection.

I’mdoingit. I’m living my dreams. Since I put on that first pair of skates at six years old, I’ve been climbing this mountain. I fought and sacrificed and trained for so long. And it hasn’t been easy. Every card has been stacked against me from the beginning. We needed government aid to get me through school, charity to pay for my hockey equipment, scholarships to make it onto the right teams.

But I did it. I put in the work and sacrificed damn near everything to become a Division 1 athlete. Then I was named a first-round draft pick to the San Jose Sharks. Now I’m a Ray…and a Nike spokesperson.

We won’t mention my brief stint as a shampoo model.

Ever.

My smile widens. Who am I kidding? The guys rag on me all the time. Two weeks ago, Novy played my commercial before the coaches rolled our game tapes. Everyone laughed and touched my hair. Let’s see if they’re still laughing when I tell them about this endorsement deal.

Knock, knock.

“Mr. Langley, you have to return to your seat,” calls the flight attendant. “Now.”

“Coming,” I shout, tucking my phone in my pocket. I give my reflection one last look in the mirror before I make my way back to my seat for takeoff.

13

Yankee Stadium is electric tonight as forty thousand hockey fans celebrate New Year’s Eve. It becomes like a cage of white noise as I try to block everything out beyond the plexiglass, staying in the zone. The freezing winter air burns my lungs, sharp and metallic in my throat.

We’re halfway through the second period and we’re down by one. The Habs are playing like lions tonight. Their forwards are throwing elbows and making hard checks. It’s bullshit because this is an exhibition game. There’s no reason these guys need to be out here checking us so hard. If they don’t back off, someone is gonna get hurt.

I’m puffing like a racehorse as I get into position for the face-off. Sully takes the center spot. Karlsson skates into position across the circle and gives me a nod. The player to his left is the worst one out here. I can see from the set of Karlsson’s shoulders he’s had enough of the rough play too. A word from us, and our defensemen will start bringing the heat. Let’s see how much No. 82 likes getting smashed into the boards by the Novikov freight train.

The ref skates in and we all tense, ready for that puck to drop. My gaze is laser-focused on his hand. I grip my stick, breathing deep, counting the seconds.

Focus. Speed. Control.

It’s my mantra. Focus on the puck. Move fast. Control your stick.

Eyes up.

The puck drops, and Sully just barely wins control of it, shooting it back to me. As soon as it hits my stick, I come alive, bursting with speed as I try to lose my shadow. But he’s right on top of me. I can hear him breathing like a mastiff around his mouthguard, thick and slobbery. He shoves his stick in, nearly tripping me, trying to wrestle the puck away.

Fuck, you’re gonna lose it.

I have to get it away from me. He’s herding me towards the boards. He won’t be gentle, and I can’t take another hit. My hips and shoulders are already screaming from the beating I took in the first period. I need this shift to end. Now.

Eyes up.

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