The First Game (I)

I wake up before my alarm, eyes snapping open in the pre-dawn darkness. Game day.

The feeling is immediate, that mix of excitement and tension that's been following me since I was eight years old, lacing up skates for the first time. Some things never change.

The house is silent. Mom worked night shift and won't be back until after I leave for school. Abbie stayed at her own place last night, another game day ritual. No distractions, no matter how tempting.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face three times. Three is the magic number. I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes, watching the timer on my phone.

Downstairs, I prepare breakfast with mechanical precision. Three eggs, scrambled with spinach and cheese. Two pieces of whole wheat toast. A glass of water and a glass of orange juice.

I eat at the kitchen table, staring at the whiteboard where Mom keeps our schedule. She's written "John'S GAME - 7PM" in big letters, circled in red.

My phone buzzes with a text. Abbie.

'Good luck today. I'll be in the stands with your jersey number painted on my face. Just kidding. Maybe. See you at school.'

I smile, typing back: 'Thanks. Save the face paint for playoffs.'

Back upstairs, I pack my school bag and my hockey bag. Equipment goes in with a specific order, skates first, always on the bottom. Shin guards next, then pants, shoulder pads, elbow pads. Helmet sits on top, facing forward.

The walk to school is crisp, early autumn air filling my lungs. I take deliberate breaths, visualizing the game ahead. Riverside's defence is physical but slow. Their goalie overcommits on the first move. Their captain, Wilson, has a short fuse, easy to draw penalties from him if you play it right.

The school parking lot is mostly empty when I arrive. It's barely 7 AM, but the rink is already open.

The security guard nods as I walk in. "Big game tonight."

"Yes, sir."

"You ready?"

"Born ready."

He laughs, waving me through. "Go get 'em, kid."

The locker room is empty, exactly how I like it on game days. I change into practice gear and head out to the ice. The rink is dark except for a few essential lights, the ice pristine after the overnight resurfacing.

I step out, the familiar scrape of blades on ice centring me immediately. This is where I belong.

For the next forty-five minutes, I run through drills solo. Nothing fancy, nothing that might wear me out before tonight.

Shot after shot into the empty net. Tight turns around imaginary defenders. Sprints from blue line to blue line, controlled but powerful.

In my head, I see the game unfolding. Riverside's defence pinching too hard. Me finding the gap, exploding through it. The puck on my stick, the goalie committing too early, the top corner open.

I visualize success, over and over. See it, believe it, achieve it.

By the time other students start trickling into the building, I'm back in the locker room, changing into my school clothes. My body feels alive, ready. The pre-game jitters have settled into a controlled burn, energy I'll tap into tonight.