SKY’S POV
I played the best game of my career on a Tuesday night against a team that didn’t matter in the standings, which felt like some kind of joke the universe was playing on me.
Thirty-eight shots. I stopped thirty-seven of them. The one that got through came off a deflection nobody could have read, not off anything I did wrong, and even that one didn’t sit in my chest the way misses used to.
I skated off that ice at the final horn to a standing ovation, the kind that used to feel like fuel, and instead I stood there in my crease for a second feeling something closer to dread than triumph.
Because a night like that meant tomorrow they’d expect it again. And the night after that. And every night until the one where I couldn’t deliver it, and then all of this — the standing ovation,
