Rush Before the Game

I’m flying down the hallway, skates slung over my shoulder, stick in hand, bag bouncing against my hip with every step. That pre-game adrenaline is already kicking in—heart pounding, blood pumping, mind locked in on what’s about to happen out there. This is what I live for. The sound of my bag hitting the tile floor, the smell of the rink seeping through the walls, the buzz of knowing I’m about to leave everything on the ice. There’s nothing like it.

I can already hear the guys in the locker room, chirping each other, music blasting, tape getting ripped off rolls. The energy is building. Game time is close. I can feel it in my bones.

But then I stop. Right there in the hallway outside the locker room, just a few feet from the door. My stomach does that thing—you know the one—and I have to let it rip. Gas. I’m just standing there for a second, alone in the hallway, and honestly, it’s a relief. I take a breath, shake it off, and that’s when my mind goes somewhere I wasn’t expecting.

Mitchell.

I don’t know why, but it does. Maybe it’s the weird quiet moment before the chaos, the calm before I walk into that locker room and flip the switch. But I’m thinking about him and his new life. Full-time Pampers now. No more solids. Just bottles of formula every hour, on the hour. It’s wild, man. When he first told me, I didn’t really know what to say. But now? I get it. He’s happy. Like, genuinely, deeply happy. And I’m happy for him.

He’s got strollers he hasn’t even sat in yet. Brand new ones, still in the boxes probably. Playpens waiting for him at home. Big baby toys—the kind with bright colors and rattles and soft edges and all that stuff—that he doesn’t even know are coming his way. But they’re there. Ready. Waiting for him to step into this new chapter fully. And he’s doing it. No looking back.

I think about the commitment that takes. The guts. Most people talk about wanting something different, wanting to live life on their own terms, but they never actually do it. They’re too scared of what people will think, too worried about judgment. Not Mitchell. He’s going all in. No hesitation. No apologies.

The only person I know with more ambition than me right now? Mitchell. And that’s saying something, because I’m out here grinding every single day. Early morning skates, late-night gym sessions, film study, nutrition, recovery—all of it. I want to make it to the show. I want to be great. But Mitchell? He’s chasing something just as big in his own way. He’s building a whole new life from the ground up, and he’s doing it with more courage than most people will ever have.

I shake my head, grin a little, and push through the locker room door. The noise hits me like a wave. Time to get my head back in the game. Time to do what I came here to do.

But I’ll be thinking about Mitchell out there. Proud of him. Inspired, even.

Let’s go.