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Sneak Peek - Any Bit of Luck

The slap of my stick on the puck reverberated into my hands, up my arms to echo in my skull. Finally . Perfect line up from my man Boh. Dry spell over.

The sharp ping of that goddamned fickle disk hitting the crossbar of the goal took the wind out of me faster than a hit into the boards.

When the ending buzzer screeched, bringing the third and last period of the game to a close, I stood slump-shouldered over the red circle in the ice.

The Ranger goalie skated past me, his smirk needling my pride. “Snake bit, eh, golden boy?”

“Fuck off.”

I shoved away with a powerful swipe of my skate and joined the rest of the team headed toward the low door to exit the ice. Fournier, the team captain, tapped the shoulder of each player as they stomped down the tunnel to the locker room.

We’d won, at least. The rest of the team picked up my slack. Making up for my less than stellar performance.

I stopped at Fournier, glove extended for a fist bump, his dark eyes wise and seeing more than I’d like. “Next one,” he said.

I dipped my chin. Acknowledging his words but a far cry from agreeing. Because I’d been thinking “next one” for weeks now and that next one just wasn’t coming.

No goals, no assists. Tonight’s zero point game topped off a series of twelve scoreless games. Twelve zero point games.

Every player went through slumps, sure. No one played a perfect game every night. No one expected a player to be perfect night after night. But I was in the worst slump of my career. I’d sell my left nut just for an assist. Anything at this point.

I swung around the corner into the chaos of a post-game locker room. Equipment banging, guys hollering across the room. Some guys hit a second wind after a good game, the adrenaline pumping through them like a runaway freight train. Others slouched on the benches in front of their stalls, barely conscious.

The media team let in reporters and tracked them with a critical eye as the vultures scavenged for their next story. I’d marked myself as unavailable for interviews tonight but that didn’t stop some of the assholes from pushing me to answer their stupid ass questions anyway. I avoided eye contact as I navigated the swarm of people to my locker stall. The newest assistant equipment manager swerved out of my path, ducking his head to avoid risking eye contact. Little prick better duck and run.

Exactly twelve games ago, he’d tossed my socks in with all the other laundry. Without a single thought for tradition.

But I was Shepherd Landon, a professional hockey player with seven years in the league, all with the badass Richland Renegades. I’d been top of the list for scoring for four of those seven years. And I’d earned my reputation as the best scorer in the league through skill and determination. I could see the plays before anyone else, spot the holes no one else could see.

I was the first kid to make the NHL from Mapleton, Virginia; I knew all about bucking hockey tradition. So I went into the next game ignoring the prickling between my shoulder blades with a random ass pair of socks on my feet and the attitude of a winner.

No goals, no assists, zero points. No worries.

I hit the nearby sporting goods store the next day, my gaze landing on a pristine pair of charcoal socks with a slick gold stripe. Heavy-duty, wicking, perfect. Same brand, same style as the ones I’d worn since college. Not that I was superstitious. Superstitions were for the veterans. Or the fresh meat rookies not confident about their skills.

The ice loved me. My slap shot could beat every goalie out there. I scored.

Until I couldn’t. Next game in the new socks? Big fat zero.

I sat in the ice bath an extra ten minutes after that game. A new strategy was in order. No problem. Time to recalibrate. The hockey gods were unimpressed. But I’d been around hockey players long enough to know what needed to be done.

Not that I was superstitious. Of course I wasn’t. But sometimes a little routine got the mind and body in sync. Ready for battle.

New day, new routine.

I borrowed from the greats. If it was good enough for Sid the Kid, it was good enough for me. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chased that baby down with a glass of cold milk.

And after nothing to show for fifteen minutes of ice time across all three periods, I resorted to rituals I’d left behind in Juniors.

And seethed as the media swarmed Charlie Taft, the second line forward, like he was the second coming. The answer to a desperate Renegade prayer. Prayers from players and fans alike. Prayers for someone, anyone, to fill the void created by my scoreless skid. As Charlie spoke with the media, saying all the right things, talking about secondary scoring and team depth and being grateful for the opportunity . . . I stood at my locker, the back of my neck burning, my stomach twisted up in knots.

After the failure of last season’s record-breaking year, the last thing the team needed was their top scorer on the wrong side of a record-breaking slump. Every word Charlie spoke was true, and yeah, hockey is a team sport, sure. But when we won because the second, third, and fourth lines picked up my slack, the coach couldn’t help but to shake things up. Just as the team didn’t win solely on the prowess of one player, the team couldn’t be dragged down by that one player, either.

No goals, no assists, zero points translated into fewer minutes on ice as Coach gave my time to the guys hitting the back of the net. Fewer minutes meant fewer opportunities. And I was absolutely a team player, understood it all came down to doing what was best for the team, what gave us the best chance to win. But the idea that I was no longer the Renegades’ best option burned a savage hole in my gut.

More pointless games in game four and five. I was a sniper who couldn’t snipe. Top scorer four years running, goalless. Game commentators picked up on the pointless run and started ending their broadcasts with the same realization I was forced to face.

I’d hit a slump. I’d gone into a skid and hit the slump to end all slumps.

Fans held up signs with the count. In case I’d forgotten. Merciless.

A slump this bad would threaten my stats for the year. Could even give that knuckle-dragging scrub with the Rangers a chance to creep closer to my title. Closer to the top.

Not fuckin’ happening.

For game six, I took a page from The Great One’s book and drank a Diet Coke, sucked down some water and a disgustingly sweet Gatorade chased by another Diet Coke . . . and hit the can more often than I hit the back of the net.

Game seven—lucky number seven, right? I mimicked Esposito for that one, tucking a black dickey under my jersey. No luck—no goals, no points, and less time spent on the ice than in my rookie year.

Coach gave me a meaningful look, but what the hell did it mean? Ice ran through my veins at the idea of sitting out a game. Of being benched. No fucking way. But he couldn’t let me go much longer without a heart-to-heart. And just how would that conversation go? I got your back or your days are numbered?

Humiliation twisted my gut until I wanted to puke.

And tonight made game twelve. No goals, no assists, no points in twelve torturous, miserable games.

I shoved my foot into my sneaks with a little too much force and shoved the bench with an ear-splitting screech.

“It’s a slump, brácha ,” Boh Zacha said over my shoulder. “You’ve been on a long streak. You were due.”

I slanted my closest friend and teammate a look. “No.”

“Before now, when was the last time you even went scoreless in a game?”

Four years ago against the stupid ass Rangers. Fourth game of the season. “That fucking Denmark.”

“He’s new, Shep. Cut the man some slack.”

“What, he never worked for hockey players before? Then what the hell was he doing in the locker room?”

“Eager to please, I guess.”

The knot in my stomach morphed into a wrench, churning up my insides like a meat grinder.

Within the realm of hockey, I’d never considered myself superstitious. I mean, some players forbid anyone from touching their stick, or insisted on eating a specific game day meal. Others refused to pass the opposing team’s locker room, walking miles out of their way to reach the locker room. Some played with the same jock, or shared elaborate handshakes with teammates. I’d never done anything so dramatic.

Just socks. A pair of lucky socks I personally washed between games. But the same pair, worn only during games, treated delicately and obviously blessed by the hockey gods to have lasted season after season.

Until Daniel “Denmark” Hansen, the new equipment guy. He’d swept through the locker room and sucked up my socks along with all the sweaty jerseys. He tossed them into one of the team’s washing machines without a care in the world and wrecked my career in the process. Moron.

I’d never thought about it. The socks were just always there. I wasn’t superstitious. I mean, they were just socks. Charcoal socks with a badass gold stripe.

I’d always been about skill. I practiced until every move, every shift, every possibility became as natural as breathing. Muscle memory. Instinctive. Second nature.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.