Page 6

Protect the crease.

Force turnovers.

Prevent breakaways.

Defend power plays.

I think back over the game tape we’ve watched in preparation for tonight.

I think about the weaknesses we’ve identified in Philadelphia’s offense, and I focus on those as I run through my warm-up routine. My teammates shoot around me and others are on the ice, but they’re nothing but a blur to me. Just like me, they’re a part of this machine. And while we don’t have to like each other, we do have to work together. As much as I want to be a lone ranger, I’m in the wrong sport for it.

Golf would have been a much better career choice.

I almost laugh out loud at the idea alone.

I can only imagine how that would have gone down.

From the moment my mother discovered she was pregnant, plans were already in place for me to put a pair of skates on my feet the second I could stand up.

I’m not sure it would have mattered if I were a girl. I’d have had the same expectations put upon me; I’d just be heading toward the PWHL instead.

Hell, maybe it would have been even worse if I were a girl. Maybe I’d still have been pushed toward the NHL and been one of the few women who are starting to break the mold in the league.

I lose myself in my thoughts as I get my body ready to perform.

I might not have wanted to be here, and those around me certainly don’t, but that isn’t going to stop me from doing my job and taking the W.

Anything else is unacceptable.

“In the zone and ready to go?” Rovvy, my defensive partner, asks as we make our way back to the dressing room.

Alexei Mororov is a good player. But he’s a little green.

He spent a couple of years developing his skills out of college with the farm team before finally being called up. He’s been playing third line since. He shows promise, but it’s going to take more work and a lot more ice time. But after my trade, Watson decided he was ready to step up and put him next to me.

I fear that Coach is expecting me to do something that I have no interest in.

Mentoring.

I glare at the excited D man.

I get it. Moving up to the second line must be a great feeling. I wouldn’t actually know, because I’ve been first line for as long as I can remember. So, while he’s glowing in his achievement, I’m still pissed about my non-starting position.

It’s my own fault. I’m more than aware of that. But it still doesn’t stop it from sucking any less.

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta be at least a little bit excited to get out there and beat Philly.”

I grunt. It’s the best response I can come up with.

I’ve been in this game long enough now that the shine has certainly worn off.

It’s been a lot of years since I looked at my career in the NHL and got all giddy about the prospect of what my life could be like.

Now, it’s a job. A job that I’m never quite good enough at.

I shake that voice from my head.

I don’t need it at the best of times, but before a game, it’s really un-fucking-helpful.