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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.
