Sweat dripped into my eyes as I stumbled my way back to the changing room. I sucked in another breath before dosing my face with my water bottle in an attempt to get the stinging to stop. Coach Miller was convinced that a good bag skating would help 'motivate me'. I thought I was in the clear. The game we played last night had been one of my best games all season. But the second I squared myself up for practice, it was as if the game we won was nothing but a fever dream.

I flicked my wrist, the sleeve of my practice jersey slouching down my forearm and revealing the gold bracelet I had found prior to our 3-1 game against Brexley. I had been running late, which is what I get for catching a ride with our starting centerman, Booker. I had seen the leggy blonde drop it after some dickhead bumped into her. Being late as it was, I picked it up and clipped it onto my wrist for safe keeping. I had every intention of finding her after the game and returning it, but she was gone before we had made our way out of the dressing room.

It didn't help that for a minute there, I thought I had found my new good luck charm. The gold chain gleamed under the arena lights, mocking me. Maybe it had just been a fluke after all.

I huffed a sigh as I made my way down the narrow corridor. The rest of the guys were able to get off the ice fifteen minutes earlier so by the time I made my way in there most of them were already gone.

Maverick, one of our leading defensemen, was the first to acknowledge me. He slammed his locker shut, hockey bag over his shoulder. "Did Coach skate you until you puked?"

I slumped on the bench, leaning my head back against the cold brick wall. "Close to it. The man's ruthless."

"Guess the whole bracelet thing was a dud," Booker chimed in as he stepped out of the shower area. "I told you man, you can't be too reliant on silly superstitions."

"I don't want to hear shit from you about superstitions." My pads met the ground with a dull thud. "You don't shower for three whole days before a game," I reminded him, displaying three fingers to help get the point across. "And the rest of us gotta live with it."

Booker gawked at me as if I were telling him to run over an elderly woman in the parking lot. "I can't wash the mojo off before a big game, are you losing it?"

"Is that what we're calling it now? Mojo?"

"It works, doesn't it?" He slipped a towel over his head and rubbed. There was a bright smile in place once his face was back in view. He flashed me a wink. "I'm always on my A-game."

I couldn't argue with him there. If any of the guys deserved to be here, it was Booker Gauthier. The guy had this raw talent that put some of the players on this team to shame. He was the best centerman Fenton had in all its years of being a Division 1 team. Skills like that only piled on the pressure when I wasn't performing, even if I didn't have any intentions of going pro. I slid my hand across the lower half of my face. The short stubble scraped against my calloused fingers. If I couldn't pull myself together I would be letting my team down. That was the shittiest feeling of all.

A steady hand clapped me on the back. McKinley, our team captain, stood next to me, a towel wrapped low around his waist. His dark brown hair was damp from the shower and dangling in front of his forehead. "Don't beat yourself up over today. It's just one practice."

His words would have soothed my bruised ego if that were actually the case. I'd been playing like shit most of the season. The frustrating thing was that I couldn't figure out why. At this point I'd tried everything; getting more sleep, eating cleaner, doing more cardio, spending more time on the ice. Hell, I had even given Booker's suggestion of talking to the goal-posts a try. Nothing was bringing me back to the level I'd been playing at for the last four years of my college hockey career.

"I don't have to beat myself up over it. I'm sure your dad is close to doing it for me," I replied, elbows on my knees.

McKinley ran a hand through his hair, water dripping onto his shoulders. "Don't worry about my old man. He sees how hard you've been working."

I gave him a stiff nod.

Effort didn't matter if it wasn't providing results. Coach Miller was a man of few words, but his stoic face would let you know if you weren't playing up to his expectations. Up until now, I had been able to stay out of his line of fire. I had been the Falcon's starting goalie since I finished their training camp freshman year.

Now my position was being threatened.

Last year, mid-season, Coach had managed to bring in some new blood–a defensemen from Brite University and a sophomore goalie from the Midwest. Both guys were nice enough. They meshed well with the team, and Liam, a second-line defensemen, especially helped pick up some of the slack. But Nikolas, the young-blood goalie, was salivating to take my spot.

The only thing keeping Coach and the new kid at bay was McKinley, and I knew that if I couldn't pull myself together I would be sitting out of the Frozen Four this year. If we even got there.

"I just want to close things off on a good note, you know?" I muttered, stripping myself of the equipment that was sweat-slicked to my skin. "It's our senior year. I want our last run to be our best one yet."

"And it will be," McKinley assured me.

"Hey," Booker started, half a protein bar in his mouth. "Did you ever think that it wasn't the bracelet that gave you a leg up against Brexley?"

I sighed. "What are you trying to say, Gauthier?"

"I'm saying," he mumbled around the food in his mouth. "What if it wasn't the bracelet? What if it was the person who it belongs to?"

"I'm not following," Maverick said from his corner of the room with his arms crossed. He was so quiet I almost forgot that he was there.

Booker's hands flew out at his sides. "It's like the Flyers in the 1970s. They only wanted Kate Smith to perform the song God Bless America because they thought it brought them luck before a game. What if it's not the bracelet bringing you good luck, but the girl who it belongs to?"

Maverick groaned. "Don't try and convince him that some chick is his new good luck charm. Miller, help me talk some sense into these two."

McKinley shrugged and finished pulling his shirt over his head. "It's no different than how you put on your right sock before your left."

"It's completely different," Maverick argued.

"I'm just saying... this person happens to come to the Brexley game–we know she was there because she dropped her bracelet–and you just so happened to play your best game of the season?" Booker held his hands up in surrender. "Some things aren't simply coincidences."

I mulled over what he was saying. Sure there was some sort of link there, but like I learned in an introductory psych course, correlation didn't lead to causation, right? She could have been at every single game this year and I only just happened to notice her this one time. I ran my thumb across my bottom lip. Something in the back of my mind told me I would have noticed a girl like that. The wave of her hair barreling down the back of her black jacket in loose tendrils. Her ivory skin had been kissed with pink from the cold that made her glow from the inside out. The corner of my lip perked up as I pictured the fire in her eyes as she burned holes into the guy that bumped into her.

Yeah, I would have noticed a girl like that.

Maverick speared him with a sharp look. "Can we talk about your theory later? I have to be somewhere."

"What could be more important than bounding with your linemates, Ricky?" Booker sassed, hands on his hips. "If you have brunch plans with a girl, I'm crashing."

The rest of their conversation funnelled into background noise as I made my way to the showers. McKinley could deal with both of them. I just hoped he managed to get them to quit bickering before the drive back to our place.

Turning on the shower, I plunged my aching body into the freezing stream of water. I allowed the water to run down my forearms and drip off my fingers into the white tiled floor. My eyes locked onto the dainty gold chain around my wrist. Booker's words echoed in my mind. What if he was right?

Running my hands through my hair, I tried to banish the thought. There was no point in getting my hopes up. Even if this girl was the reason for my mojo returning (even for the duration of one game), how was I going to find her? I didn't even know if she was a student at Fenton. For all I knew, she could have been from out of state visiting friends.

But what if I did find her?

The hopeful voice in my mind was soon squashed by the logistics. If I did find her, I'd have to figure out a way to convince her to come to all my games and practices without coming off like a freak.

I groaned as I reached for the shampoo bottle the team left in the corner of each stall. If I kept this up I would give myself a headache before breakfast. As I finished washing up, I reflected on each of the sloppy mistakes I made at practice that morning.

Maverick was right. I had to work through my slump on my own.

By the time I was out of the shower each of the guys was standing by the hallway that led us out of the changing room with their bags over their shoulders.

"You guys didn't have to wait," I said, rushing to dry myself off and throw on my street clothes.

"And make you walk after the hell Coach put you through this morning?" Booker replied. "What kinda teammates do you think we are?"

Maverick raised a firm eyebrow in the centerman's direction. "Weren't you the one–"

Booker sent a sharp elbow into our friend's arm. "Don't know what you're talking about, Ricky."

McKinley shook his head at their antics, truck keys dangling from his finger. "We can wait five more minutes."

Booker flashed me a sheepish smile, hitching his thumb in McKinley's direction. "He's the real beauty."

I hurried along, throwing any equipment that didn't have to be washed into my hockey bag.

"Okay," I said, zipping it up and lifting it onto my shoulder. "Let's go."

We hauled ass through the arena. When we had dragged ourselves to practice this morning the sun wasn't even up yet. Now, as we made our walk across the arena, the rare winter rays shone through the windows. I had become used to early morning practices since I was a kid. Back then I was a lot less willing to abandon the comfort of my bed, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Being on a hockey team had done so much for me growing up. It taught me discipline that my mom insists I so desperately needed.

Even now, I liked waking up before the rest of campus. It gave me time to decompress and start my day without any distractions. There was so much I was grateful to hockey for. Which is why I involved myself in the community in hopes of giving back.

"Hey Tate," Booker called over his shoulder. "What are the chances of you making those protein pancakes for breakfast this morning?"

"Breakfast will have to be a quick one this morning. I have training with the kids."

"You should bring me along one day. I'll show them how it's really done."

I rolled my eyes, but before I could say anything McKinley intervened. "You couldn't teach if we taped an instruction manual to your forehead."

"I absolutely fucking could," Booker replied as he shoved the doors to the arena open.

The heat of the building soon dissipated. The winter chill swirled through the open doors and brushed against my still-damp hair. I fought back a shiver. Despite the sun being out it was still a frigid New York morning–something I was still getting used to after living in Dallas all my life.

I zipped my track suit jacket up to my neck. Sure, the winters here could be fairly mild, but when Mother Nature decided to act up she didn't play around. The other guys weren't too bothered. McKinley was born and raised in the state of New York with frequent trips over the holidays to visit his grandparents in New Hampshire. Maverick was from Washington and wasn't too bothered by the onslaught of snow we got here at times.

But the real freak of nature was Booker. The French Canadian made his way through the parking lot in nothing but a Falcon's t-shirt, his bare arms soaking up whatever vitamin D the sun was giving off.

Damn Canuck.

"I hope you warmed up your truck," I said to McKinley, teeth starting to chatter.

"Already on it, bud." He flashed his remote start. "That bad boy's been getting toasty for the past ten minutes."

My sneakers shuffled a little faster in the thin layer of slush coating the parking lot. I was staring ahead, eyes roaming towards the corner where we had parked McKinley's truck that morning. But something in my peripheral caught my attention. A blonde in a black jacket moved along the sidewalk.

I stalled in my tracks.

"Tate?" McKinley's concern caught my attention. "You coming?"

Three sets of confused eyes were glued onto me. My brain stuttered for a moment, unsure what to do.

"Head back to the Hockey House without me," I said. "I'll just walk."

"You sure?" McKinley asked, his eyes darted over to the girl from the Brexley game. The one that Booker thought could be my good luck charm. The one who might have been the answer to our losing streak. "We can wait."

Maverick seemed ready to remind us about his plans, but I shook my head.

"Don't worry about it," I said, taking a step away from the group after tossing my hockey bag in McKinley's direction. "I'll see you guys back at the house."

"I guess this means no protein pancakes?" Booker called after me as I made my way across the parking lot.

Unless protein pancakes were the answer to my prayers, they could wait. At that moment I was focused on two things; meeting the owner of my not-so-lucky bracelet and convincing her to come to every practice and game for the rest of the season.

– – – – –

author's note:

That was a nice little introduction to our boy, Hendrix. What do you think of him so far? I'm not going to lie, I was kinda inspired to write a little bit of a cowboy after my short trip to Nashville. If you have any ideas on how I can help bring this out in my writing, please let me know! As you'll soon find out, Hendrix is one of the good ones. He'll help balance Ella out a lot.

I hope you have a great weekend. Happy reading!