Page 19 of Play Along With Me
After showering and changing, I sit in my car in the empty parking lot and pull out my journal. This ritual has become as essential to my routine as stretching.
I AM IN THE NHL.I write in capital letters at the top of the page.I HAVE EARNED THIS OPPORTUNITY. I AM READY.
Yeah, it's cheesy as hell. If any of my teammates found this journal, I'd never hear the end of it. But there's something about putting the words on paper that makes them feel more concrete, like I'm speaking them into existence.
Below my daily affirmations, I jot down what I worked on today and what I still need to improve before Tuesday:
Glove positioning better on high shots. Tracking through traffic improving. Need more work on low-to-high pushes and sealing posts on sharp angles.
I close the journal and tuck it into my bag. Some guys pray before games. Some have elaborate equipment rituals. I write affirmations like I'm running a motivational Instagram account for goalies with anxiety issues.
Whatever works, right?
"Marshall! You planning to stop any pucks today, or just admire them as they go past you?"
Coach Klein's voice booms across the ice during afternoon practice with Providence. I've just let in my third consecutive shot during our scrimmage drill, and judging by his purple face, he's not impressed.
"Sorry, Coach," I call back, tapping my stick on the ice in acknowledgment. "Won't happen again."
"Better not," he grumbles. "Whatever's got your head in the clouds, get it out. We've got Springfield tomorrow night."
The truth is, I'm exhausted. Between my early morning solo sessions, regular team practices, and our game schedule, my body is starting to revolt. But I can't ease up, not with Tuesday looming.
After practice, I collapse onto the bench in the locker room, slowly peeling off my sweat-soaked gear. Vander drops down beside me, already showered and changed while I was doing extra work with our goalie coach.
"You look like shit," he observes helpfully.
"Thanks. I'm trying a new skincare routine called 'crushing exhaustion and constant stress.'"
"It's not working for you," he says, then lowers his voice. "Seriously, man, you're going to burn yourself out before Tuesday if you keep this up."
I sigh, knowing he's right but not wanting to admit it. "I need to be ready."
"You are ready," Vander insists. "You've been ready for the past two years. You're just making yourself crazy now."
Before I can respond, Winslow, our captain, walks over. At thirty-five, he's the elder statesman of our team, a career AHL player who's made peace with never quite reaching the NHL.
"Marshall," he says, sitting on my other side. "Got a minute?"
I nod, bracing myself for more advice I don't want to hear.
"Word is you've been here at the crack of dawn every day this week," Winslow says, not bothering to ask how he knows. Teams are worse than small towns for gossip.
"Just getting some extra work in," I shrug.
"You know what impresses NHL coaches more than a guy who practices himself into the ground?" Winslow asks.
"What's that?"
"A guy who stops pucks in actual games." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "You can barely keep your eyes open right now. Take tomorrow morning off. Sleep in. Come to the game fresh."
I start to protest, but Winslow cuts me off. "That's not a suggestion. It's your captain telling you to get your shit together. We need you sharp for Springfield, and the Saints need you sharp on Tuesday."
The fact that everyone knows about my Tuesday practice with Boston should be annoying, but that's hockey. No secrets in the locker room.
"Fine," I concede. "But if I let in a softie tomorrow, I'm blaming you."
"I'll take that risk," Winslow says, then raises his voice so the whole room can hear. "Alright boys, let's talk about Marshall's big date with the Saints."
