Page 5 of Lucky Laces
But as much as I stare at the symbols on the screen—at the mix of Xs and Os interspersed with arrows on a drawing of the rink—I can’t get them to sit still.
Can’t get them to make sense.
This is always the worst part for me.
If I can play it out or if I can watch my teammates do it, then I get it—often in one take.
But attempting to learn it like this?On a piece of paper or tablet, the contents turning into a swirling mass of shapes and arrows, my brain too fucking slow, too fucking dumb to process it?—
No.
It doesn’t stick.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the tablet aside and rubbing my hands over my face, resisting the urge to slap some sense into myself.
That hasn’teverworked.
And maybe it’s pathetic that I’ve tried this same shit in the first place.
But it’s the start of the season, everyone is picking up the new system, the changes the coaching staff have put in place.
No one seems to be struggling like I am.
So, why can’t I fucking get this?
Groaning, I jump up to my feet, leaving the tablet and papers where they are—though I do glare at them as I go into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge.I twist off the top, toss it into the trash, and take a long pull.
But it doesn’t ease the burn inside me.
Doesn’t soothe the ache of frustration.
Not even when I drain the last of the dregs from the bottle.
I drop the empty into the recycle bin—because I may not be able to get the fucking system to make sense in my big dumb brain, but at least I care about the environment—then move down the hall and into my home gym.
To do the one thing I’m good at.
Lift heavy shit.
Get bigger.
Get stronger.
So I can be better on the ice.
I load plates on the barbell, lift it onto my shoulders.
And I start squatting.
But even as sweat breaks out on my skin and my quads cry out for mercy, I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Because this is the only thing I’m good at.
The only thing I’ve got.
And sooner or later, I won’t be strong enough or big enough.
