Page 8 of Lucky
It’s far away from TikTok and the goofy persona I’ve got going on there.While I love hamming it up to the world, being on the ice is what I live and breathe for.
Out here, I’m not trying to be anything.Not the funny guy.Not the one seeking the social media spotlight.I’m just Lucky Branson, left winger for the Pittsburgh Titans, and I came to win.
We open strong and the first period flies by—tight puck movement, quick transitions.I set up a beauty of a goal that my center, Anders Blom, one-times so hard the goalie’s water bottle flips off the net.
The arena goes wild, and our line converges on the Swedish phenom.I tap my stick against his calf and rub his helmet.“That was fire.”
Second period, I get clipped behind the play.Nothing dirty, but enough to rattle my teeth.I skate it off, jawing at the ref as I pass, because it wouldn’t be a Lucky shift without a little flair.
By the third, the score’s tied 2–2 and the place is buzzing.I dig in hard, full sprint along the boards, flip a saucer pass over a defenseman’s stick and hit Anders again, tape-to-tape.He scores.
We converge with the rest of our line, slapping ass and taking names.
It doesn’t matter to me that I didn’t score the goal.I make things happen and fuck if that doesn’t feel just as good.That puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd erupts and a surge of elation floods me harder than if I’d put it in myself.Another rowdy celebration in front of Ottawa’s net.The guys pile in around us, gloves tapping helmets, voices shouting praise.Assists never get old, not to me.Setting up a teammate, seeing their grin widen as they raise their arms in triumph, that’s a different kind of rush.Goals are great, but there’s something electric about being the playmaker, knowing you’re the spark behind someone else’s glory.
We leisurely skate back to the bench as there’s a TV time-out and then the first line is back on.The puck drops for the face-off, and Penn wins it cleanly, snapping it back toward King.In a smooth, practiced motion, King shifts it over to Bain, who quickly sends it ahead to Stone.The crowd noise intensifies as they sense something about to happen.
Stone carries the puck smoothly over the blue line, shoulders squared, head on a swivel.Boone breaks right, drawing defenders wide and opening a perfect gap in the center of the ice.Stone flicks the puck across, a perfect pass to Penn, who one-times it toward the net.
The opposing goalie barely makes the save, deflecting the puck with a desperate lunge.The rebound pops loose, skidding just past Boone’s stick.
The chase is on, Bain and King on the heels of an Ottawa defender who has the biscuit cleanly before him and a ten-foot lead.From the crease, Drake squats low, light on his skates as the opponent bears down on him.He waits patiently and is rewarded when Bain makes a last-ditch reach for the puck, knocking it free, but it slides toward our goal.Drake lunges aggressively to knock it away, his skate catching awkwardly in a rut.
In a split second, he twists sharply, collapsing onto the ice with a sharp grimace of pain.
“Shit,” I mutter as the whistle blows and the arena hushes.Every Titan on the ice converges quickly around Drake.
Penn signals to the bench urgently, and the trainers rush out, kneeling beside our goalie.
“That looked bad,” Van says from beside me on the bench.
“Yeah,” I murmur grimly.It did not look pleasant and by the grimace on Drake’s face, I’m guessing it’s definitely a game-ending injury.
He’s eventually lifted to his skates, leaning heavily on King and Bain, his jaw clenched tight.He’s not putting any weight on his left leg, and as they guide him off, it’s clear from everyone’s faces—this is bad.
The arena breaks into supportive applause, a low rumble of concern and encouragement as Drake slowly exits the ice.
Penn exchanges a tense look with Stone, both knowing what losing Drake means at this point in the season.The playoffs are looming, and Drake’s our anchor.
“Damn,” Rafferty growls, shaking his head.“We didn’t need this.”
“No,” Van says, determination flickering behind his worry.“But we’ll rally.We always do.”
Kace Elliott comes off the bench and he’s a reliable backup goalie.A little young but has the instincts of a veteran.We ultimately close out the win with an empty netter, bringing us one step closer to securing a prime playoff spot.Still, there’s an undeniable sense of unease rippling through the Titans’ bench.Losing Drake isn’t just losing a goalie—it’s losing a piece of our identity.
Back in the locker room, I sit on the bench in front of my cubby, hair still wet from the post-game shower.My body aches in that good, earned way.
Penn emerges with a towel around his waist, another around his shoulders.He plops down on the bench and shakes his head.“They took Drake to the hospital for an MRI.It’s his groin.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, knowing that our playoff potential is very much tied to our goalie.He’s about the best in the league and I’m not sure Kace can stand up to the pressures of leading this team to a championship.
On the other hand, the kid could absolutely rise to the top.
I shrug off my worries, though.“It’ll be fine.”
Penn cocks an eyebrow.“And you know this how?”
“Because I’m Lucky.Born on the thirteenth under a full moon.Every team I’ve been with has made the playoffs every year I was with them.That has to account for something, right?”
