Page 63 of My Lucky Charm

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I tell myself I’m not sure why, but I think I have a pretty good idea.

It matters when I’m listening to Coach’s pre-game pep talk.

It matters because she’s the only person in this entire place who is here for me, whether I play like crap tonight or not.

And it matters when the DJ plays “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake to usher me into the arena.

What the heck? I didn’t ask for that.

I can’t shake her face out of my mind. So what if she doesn’t like hockey?

She reminded me of what’s really important—I didn’t start playing this game because I wanted endorsement deals, or records, or banners, or fans.

I started playing this game because I loved it. But years of my dad’s critiques had shifted my feelings more toward resentment than love.

I can still see him, standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, glaring disappointment at me over the ice.

I learned very quickly that this game, to him, would never be “just for fun”. It became my obsession to be the best.

Shooting around after practice with a bunch of my friends, without the prying eyes of coaches or parents or scouts, became a thing of the past. And as the stakes grew, the pressure increased. The gravity of my position weighed heavy. I discovered that when you’re on top of the world, it’s awesome, but when you mess up, it’s ten times worse.

And no matter what I do, I still hear my dad after every missed shot.

It’s the first intermission, and he’s been in my head the whole first period.

Stupid offside penalty—I got turned around on defense, I couldn’t get out of the box quick enough on the line change.

We’re down 2-1. All I can focus on are mistakes. I can’t see past them.

We clomp into the locker room, and I chuck my gloves on the floor. I need to figure this out.

During the break, like a lot of guys, I have a ritual.

It’s only fifteen minutes, but Jericho still strips down and jumps in and out of an ice bath, the lunatic. Junior eats a mound of salty snacks and drinks an Alani Nu energy drink. Burke’s on the tablet, watching game video. I sit on the bench in front of my locker and begin the process of retaping my stick.

The guys are loud. Gump wants to know if the hit Crosby took to the jaw just before the period ended was dirty. Kemp insists it was and they start to talk about tactics to check the guy to the boards first chance they get.

I put the chatter in the background.

As I pull the old tape off my stick, I notice a red dot on the blade.

What is that? Blood?

I flip the stick around and rub my fingernail over it, trying to chip it off, when I realize it’s not just a random dot or a scratch.

It’s a heart. Someone painted a tiny heart on the bottom of my hockey stick.

Eloise.

I close my eyes and try to imagine what hoops she had to jump through to put this on my stick.

It makes me think back on what Eloise said before the game. Here she was, a person who admittedly knows nothing about my sport, and she said exactly what I needed to hear.

I then visualize her in the crowd, watching me. The way it felt to connect with her out there surprised me. I tossed her a little nod of acknowledgement, but it’s only now that I begin to process her words.

First period, I didn’t play like I loved it.

Time to switch that.

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