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That net is mine. It’s the area of the ice I control. I picture myself protecting the inside of the net from anything and anyone that threatens to get inside.
I learned a long time ago that visualizing success makes it more likely it’ll happen. I never go into a game planning to try my hardest and hope for a win. I go in knowing I’m a champion and I’m in control. I rarely lose my cool on the ice, because negativity always affects my play in a bad way.
At thirty-four, I’m the oldest starting goalie in pro hockey. Reporters mention it regularly in their stories. For me, though, it’s not a negative. I’m the most experienced. I’m still at my peak. And I loathe the thought of slipping so much that I work hard to stay there.
Hockey is physical, for sure, but a lot of it is mental. Before I lost Lily, hockey was what I did. I loved it, but it didn’t define me. In the past three years, though, hockey has become who I am. It’s my whole life.
I start stretching, still visualizing what success looks like. What it smells like. What it feels like.
Success is being covered in sticky, sweet champagne as my teammates and I celebrate winning the cup. It’s kids asking me to autograph sticks because they look up to me. Success is Anton on his hands and knees in the locker room, crying openly because we came back from behind to make it to the championship.
That success is made up of a million moments. Every stretch I do is a tiny step closer to victory. It means I can go just a little farther during a game, drop to the ice just a millisecond faster.
Hockey games are often won by seconds. Inches. And now that hockey is my whole world, I spend more time mentally and physically preparing for those small make or break moments that separate first and second place.
I use my foam roller to loosen my muscles, letting my mind wander to Rey. She’s not coming to tonight’s game, but eventually, she will. And even though she and I aren’t really a thing, I kind of like the idea of having someone here watching me again. I always felt like I pushed a little harder when I knew Lily was in that VIP box.
If Lily were still alive, she’d like Rey. A lot. It’s funny, because they couldn’t be more different as people, but I knew Lily well and I know she would have found Rey brave, funny and strong. And somehow, knowing that softens me toward Rey.
I stay in the training room as long as I can, enjoying the solitude as I stretch and roll all my muscles. But eventually, I have to go back into the locker room to dress.
I’m just getting started when Anton walks up and gives me a once over.
“Did you piss?” he asks me.
I grin in response. “Are you really asking me that like you’re my mom?”
He hikes up his brows in response. “You usually piss after you stretch, before you put all your gear on. I’m just asking because you don’t get to leave the game like the rest of us, man.”
“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t need to go today.”
Anton shrugs and says, “Might want to try, man.”
I bust out a laugh. “Christ, dude. I can’t believe you just told me to try to go potty like I’m a little kid.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know.”
He’s right, though. I stop putting on my gear and go take a piss. There’s nothing worse than a game that goes long when you’ve got to go. I have to be careful what I eat for a full twenty-four hours before every game so I don’t feel a sudden urge to shit during a game. Goaltenders wear a lot more gear than anyone else on the ice and we can’t just go drop our pants and piss real quick. Everything’s tied together. Not to mention, like Anton said, I rarely get to leave a game.
We’re playing the Austin Comets tonight, and I can’t fucking wait to get onto the ice. They beat us 3–2 in our last matchup, and all of us are charged up as we huddle in the locker room.
“Light ‘em up, boys!” Anton yells as we break and head out.
Our home crowd is like no other. Chicago fans are die-hard, and they bring a fierceness to our arena that fuels us. I never want to play anywhere but here.
I stretch in front of the goal as I wait for the puck to drop, keeping myself loose. And like I do before every game, I wave to the group of female season ticket holders who call themselves my fan club. One of them is holding up a sign that says, “Jonah gives me a bonah.” I’m definitely gonna hear about that one in the locker room later.
