Pax steps in then, walking up to Dane until their faces are only inches apart.
“You got something to say?” Pax asks him.
Dane puts his hands up in mock surrender. When Pax and I played for opposing teams, he was one of the enforcers I feared the most. He doesn’t bullshit, and the guy’s an absolute beast.
“You can either shut your piehole, or I’ll make sure you wish you would’ve,” Pax says in a level tone. “You’re either helping this team or hurting it—your choice.”
Dane doesn’t look away, but he also doesn’t fire back. A threat from a team’s enforcer is one every player should take seriously. If Pax decides he’s unwilling to protect Dane on the ice, Dane will become a target.
Alexei came back from a bad leg injury after a car accident a couple years ago. The pundits thought he’d never play again, but he proved them wrong. I want to do the same with every fiber of my being, but if my leg gives out on me physically, I’m fucked.
It was an on-ice fight with Hunter Paul right after I found out he was fucking my fiancée behind my back that ruined my leg. We fell together during our fight and his skate blade cut into my lower leg and knee. It was a freak accident. He never apologized, though. Never once called to see how I was recovering.
Between that and him cheating with Alana, Hunter is number one on my shit list. We’re playing Tampa in a few weeks, and if my leg’s going to fail me, I only hope it lasts me through that game. When I envisioned all the reasons I wanted to come back to hockey during rehab, facing him again was high on the list.
“Hey, Cap,” Pike says, walking up to the bench and stopping to look down at me. “You good?”
I nod. Team captain. I was hoping my teammates would choose me for this honor, but right now, it feels like a lot. More pressure on top of what I’m already feeling. I don’t even feel up to leading myself right now, let alone my teammates. There are lots of guys—like Alexei—who would have been better choices for team captain.
Closing my eyes, I take a breath in and exhale hard. I put in my AirPods, pull the hood of my hoodie over my head so it hides my face and put my elbows on my knees, pushing play on my pregame playlist.
“Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns n’ Roses starts up, and I work on the breathing exercises one of my therapists taught me to use to center myself. Rehab was overwhelming at times, but music and re-centering helped me through.
After the breathing exercises, I walk through a mental list of things I can control. My attitude, the amount of effort I give, the things I say and the choices I make as a leader of my team. I envision myself skating hard, scoring goals and celebrating with my team.
What is winning? I spent a lot of time answering that question when I was in therapy. I had to come back not just physically, but mentally. One of my therapists helped me see that just trying to rehab was a win. Putting myself out there again to play was a win. I’ve always defined winning as numbers on a scoreboard, but I see it more broadly now.
I move on to the next exercise—picturing something that makes me happy. Gia immediately pops into my head. It’s been almost a week since we played at the Bellagio, but I still clearly remember watching her play. I sat at a table on the far side of the room, where I had a good view of her. I played shit poker for two hours, but it was worth every cent to watch her.
She’s good at what she does. Gia wins quietly, her expression the same whether she wins or loses. When she’s at a poker table, she’s in a bubble, ignoring everything but the game. A guy sitting next to her the other night tried to make conversation, but she hardly responded and never looked at him.
We haven’t been able to get together since that night for breakfast, but we’ve texted. The last few days, I’ve been tight on my diet and sleep so I’d be ready for tonight. Much as I’d love to play poker just to be in the same room with Gia, I can’t. I’ll be able to tomorrow night, though, and we should be able to get breakfast after the next morning, which is a Sunday.
Even when Gia loses a big hand, she keeps playing. I lost the biggest hand of my life when my leg was injured, but I’m not giving up. If I can’t play at the level I used to, it won’t be because I didn’t give it everything I’ve got.
Bear comes into the locker room to give us his pregame talk. He’s a hell of a coach, but he’s not exactly a poet.
“Go out there and play your fucking balls off, boys,” he says at the end of his speech. “Show them this is our ice.”
It’s almost time to make our way out to the ice. Even from inside the locker room, we can hear the roar of the crowd. Tickets to our opening franchise game sold out a while ago. These fans are hungry for a team to be proud of.
The guys look at me, and I once again feel the weight of my role as team captain. I breathe in and out, rubbing my thumb over the lucky spot on the end of my stick like I do before every game.
I’ve gone through lots of sticks as a hockey player, but every time I get a new one, the first thing I do is write my mother’s initials—SJH for Sara Jane Hagen—near the end of the stick. I cover it with a strip of clear tape to keep the letters protected. Though I lost my mom to colon cancer when she was thirty-six and I was thirteen, she’s with me every game I play. I wish I could hear her voice right now, but all I have are these letters I’m running my thumb over.
I clear my throat and say, “Vegas has a hockey team now. They’ve waited a long time for this. And even though we’re unproven, those people are out there screaming for us. Let’s go out there and make them proud.” A few guys yell and put their sticks in the air.
It wasn’t the best pep talk ever given, but it’ll do. I do my centering exercises again on the way out to the ice, blood whooshing through my head, making me feel a bit lightheaded.
Tonight, I need to show the world I’m still Maverick Hagen.
Everything about this arena is new. There are no memories here—good or bad. But when I step onto the ice—left skate first, as always—there’s an ingrained familiarity. Skating onto the home ice at game time is like nothing else.
I wave to the cheering fans as the pregame music plays, smiling and giving them a few pumps of my fist. We’re playing the Chicago Blaze tonight, a seasoned team without many weak spots. We’re going to have to come out fast and hard against them.
As the puck drop approaches, the distractions around me fade away. I lose track of the roaring crowd and the signs they’re waving. I focus only on myself and my mindset. My leg feels strong—I’m ready. I worked hard for this moment.
“Hey, man,” Anton Petrov, the Blaze captain, nods at me. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
The seconds it takes for the ref to drop the puck feel like hours. Finally, the clock is running and I’m playing hockey again.
We win the face-off, but within a minute Chicago has stolen the puck from us not just once, but twice, and scored their first goal. Bear is screaming from the bench, his face red and I’m guessing, his blood pressure high.
It’s only one goal. I’ve never believed in losing my cool during a game. We have to keep fighting until the last second.
And damn, do I want to win this game. For the fans, for the morale of our team, and so I can prove to myself and everyone watching me and saying I’m not worth my contract that I am.