Penalty Kill

Jake

"GET YOUR FUCKING ASS MOVING, BRYERS!"

The piercing screech hits my ears from clear across the ice, and I don't need to be near the bench to know that there's spittle flying out from coach's mouth in all directions as he screams at me for what feels like the millionth time tonight.

We've been losing. A lot. In the most fucking miserable, frustrating, inexusable ways possible. Blown leads in the third. Ineffectual power plays. Stupid passes and shit defending—my shit defending.

I've been unsettled, anxious and distracted by everything on and off the ice. Heading into one of our most intense stretches of games this season, there was so much going on in my personal life that I was far from fucking ready for this brutal series of games. On top of that, I've been under training and overtired.

Balancing a relationship and playing professional hockey has proven to be more complicated than I expected. So much of my time and energy has been wrapped up in Harper, which is exactly where I want it to be, that hockey has taken a back burner for the first time in my career.

And boy has it been one of the most fucking disastrous, humbling experiences of my fucking life.

My body is old. Sure, maybe not by traditional age standards it's not. But by hockey standards, it's a miracle I'm still upright on skates most days. If I don't keep myself on a strict training regimen, shit starts falling apart. Fast. The aches, the pains, the muscle memory—everything that hurts gets sharper, and everything that should be second nature gets a little fuzzy. Even taking a single day off feels like a setback of weeks.

Taking time off and knowing the new guy they tried out in my absence was well received and my return has not been—especially by the fans—has been a real mind fuck. The subtle and undeniable underlying string of tension in the locker room was painfully apparent to me when I came back from Wisconsin. Add that in with the shit and vitriol being slung around online about me coming back to the lineup, and I've been more than a little self conscious of my performance.

And it's not only my state of mind that's suffering because of it. We've had back to back games, followed by a day off and then onto the next one. The manic pace has been hell on my body. Old injuries have been aggravated and angry, new pains arise every time I'm on the ice, and I'm doing my absolute fucking damnedest to hide it from everyone.

Coach, teammates, Harper. I've had an easy enough time brushing off any questioning glances or blatant demands knowing if I'm alright. I've been lucky enough to have people buy my responses of "Just fucking old, dickweed," or "It's nothing a few stretches and an ice bath won't fix."

But my playing has gotten sloppier with every game where I attempt to drag my beaten, bruised body across the ice. It's made me frustrated as all hell, and it's getting harder and harder to hide. I've placed as many calls as I can to my private physical therapist, and all he can do is suggest doing what I have been doing until he can actually get his hands on me and try to sort out what's going on.

So as I dig my blades into the ice and take a deep, shaking breath, my joints and muscles screaming at me to stop, I grimace and push myself to find the highest gear I have. One of their forwards is hauling absolute fucking ass towards our goal, and if this ends up being a breakaway goal, I might just end up cementing my fate and living up to everyone's opinions of me lately.

Everything inside of me is clanging alarm bells trying to get me to stop as I skate as hard and fast as I can. Despite the burning of my lungs burning and hammering of my heart, I somehow manage to catch up to the near flying forward as he's weaving his way towards the boards, looking to make a pass backwards. It's two on one, and I don't have time to turn around and figure out where the other defensemen is—I need to do something.