Page 4 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

I’ve had a few scuffles this year, and then there was the three-game suspension for hitting a player after the game.

It was deserved, even though the media ate it like ice cream on the 4th of July. I took it on the chin, but the games I missed tarnished my good name.

But I shrugged it off. You can’t always be a big fish in a large pond without getting noticed.

But tonight, it’s in the past.

Tonight is the game we’ve spent the year pinning for.

And now, we’re minutes away from having our dreams made or crushed.

There’s a sound of the locker room before a game, but tonight, it’s with more energy. It’s not silence, exactly. It’s tighter than that. Tenser. Like the air itself knows what’s coming.

Game Seven.

Tied series. One more sixty-minute war and somebody walks out a champion. The other team walks out with nothing but bruises and bitterness.

I sit, lacing my skates slowly and deliberately. If I rush, the whole night might fall apart before the puck even drops. My gloves sit next to me like weapons. My stick’s taped just the way I like it—clean, tight, black tape with no frays. Every inch of me is wired. My heart is hammering—blood buzzing.

This is what I live for.

The noise around me fades in and out. Guys talk. Some are too loud. Some don’t say a word, and that’s how they like it - quiet so I can focus on my game mood.

But the stadium, definitely, isn’t quiet.

The playoff virgins, like Wyatt, bounce their knees like they’re about to throw up. The vets keep their heads down because here, routines are sacred. Nobody touches their gear the wrong way. No one says the word “win” out loud.

Superstition runs deep on nights like this.

I hear someone cracking their knuckles. Someone else whispers a prayer. I breathe. In. Out. Fast, then steady.

The trainers float through like ghosts, passing water bottles, taping wrists, and slapping shoulders. The assistant coach throws out reminders—nothing we haven’t heard a hundred times. I don’t need a speech. I don’t need a pep talk. I know exactly who I am when that puck drops.

I’m the problem they can’t solve.

I look around the room and lock eyes with my teammates. We’ve come to know each other like the work husbands we are.

Together. We’ve fought and cursed and blocked shots with our bodies when our legs were shot. We’re not teammates anymore. We’re brothers in battle. And we’re thirty minutes away from the biggest one of our lives.

Coach finally steps in front of us. He doesn’t say much.

“You already know what to do,” he says. “Go take what’s yours.”

That does it.

Helmets on. Gloves up. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. I slap my stick against the floor once. The echo is loud.

Kal yells, “Let’s go!”

We file out, one by one, blades clacking down the tunnel. I hit the ice last—on purpose. I want the moment to hit me. I want to remember everything—the roar of the crowd, the brightness of the lights, and how my cold breath curls around my face.

I was made for this.

And I’ll be damned if I walk off this ice without a ring on my finger and my name carved into history.

For a second, I feel like I’m invisible. Tonight, I’m making sure I’m one of those names.

Then my world narrows when my blades hit the ice.