Shutout | Complete

Chapter 2

Sweat dripped into my eyes as I stumbled my way back to the changing room. I sucked in another breath before dosing my face with my water bottle in an attempt to get the stinging to stop. Coach Miller was convinced that a good bag skating would help 'motivate me'. I thought I was in the clear. The game we played last night had been one of my best games all season. But the second I squared myself up for practice, it was as if the game we won was nothing but a fever dream.

I flicked my wrist, the sleeve of my practice jersey slouching down my forearm and revealing the gold bracelet I had found prior to our 3-1 game against Brexley. I had been running late, which is what I get for catching a ride with our starting centerman, Booker. I had seen the leggy blonde drop it after some dickhead bumped into her. Being late as it was, I picked it up and clipped it onto my wrist for safe keeping. I had every intention of finding her after the game and returning it, but she was gone before we had made our way out of the dressing room.

It didn't help that for a minute there, I thought I had found my new good luck charm. The gold chain gleamed under the arena lights, mocking me. Maybe it had just been a fluke after all.

I huffed a sigh as I made my way down the narrow corridor. The rest of the guys were able to get off the ice fifteen minutes earlier so by the time I made my way in there most of them were already gone.

Maverick, one of our leading defensemen, was the first to acknowledge me. He slammed his locker shut, hockey bag over his shoulder. "Did Coach skate you until you puked?"

I slumped on the bench, leaning my head back against the cold brick wall. "Close to it. The man's ruthless."

"Guess the whole bracelet thing was a dud," Booker chimed in as he stepped out of the shower area. "I told you man, you can't be too reliant on silly superstitions."

"I don't want to hear shit from you about superstitions." My pads met the ground with a dull thud. "You don't shower for three whole days before a game," I reminded him, displaying three fingers to help get the point across. "And the rest of us gotta live with it."

Booker gawked at me as if I were telling him to run over an elderly woman in the parking lot. "I can't wash the mojo off before a big game, are you losing it?"

"Is that what we're calling it now? Mojo?"

"It works, doesn't it?" He slipped a towel over his head and rubbed. There was a bright smile in place once his face was back in view. He flashed me a wink. "I'm always on my A-game."

I couldn't argue with him there. If any of the guys deserved to be here, it was Booker Gauthier. The guy had this raw talent that put some of the players on this team to shame. He was the best centerman Fenton had in all its years of being a Division 1 team. Skills like that only piled on the pressure when I wasn't performing, even if I didn't have any intentions of going pro. I slid my hand across the lower half of my face. The short stubble scraped against my calloused fingers. If I couldn't pull myself together I would be letting my team down. That was the shittiest feeling of all.

A steady hand clapped me on the back. McKinley, our team captain, stood next to me, a towel wrapped low around his waist. His dark brown hair was damp from the shower and dangling in front of his forehead. "Don't beat yourself up over today. It's just one practice."

His words would have soothed my bruised ego if that were actually the case. I'd been playing like shit most of the season. The frustrating thing was that I couldn't figure out why. At this point I'd tried everything; getting more sleep, eating cleaner, doing more cardio, spending more time on the ice. Hell, I had even given Booker's suggestion of talking to the goal-posts a try. Nothing was bringing me back to the level I'd been playing at for the last four years of my college hockey career.