Joelle Morrow has her focus set on the future. As an up-and-coming lingerie designer, she's overcome multiple setbacks on the road to achieving her dream of opening her own boutique but has yet to be knocked down, leaving her no time to think about...
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With the ice underneath my skates, a familiar rush of adrenaline pumped through me.
Over the years, I'd spent countless hours working on my abilities—perfecting my power, speed, puck control, shooting accuracy, and every other essential skill needed to make it in professional hockey. But today, none of that mattered. It was all in the past, and once again, I needed to prove I was good enough to be here.
Practices so far had been a blur of drills and new plays, learning as much as I could while trying to keep up with my new teammates. Until today, when Coach Davidson shuffled a few players around during a three-on-two drill to pair me with Schmidt and Wellsley on the third line.
And I didn't question it.
Taking my spot on the right wing, I raced down the rink alongside them. Immediately, Wellsley passed it off to Schmidt, pulling the defensemen over to the left, and as we raced across the blue line, Wellsley sped towards the net before circling back around to accept a pass. At least that's what he wanted the defense to think. Instead, he left me with a clear shot when Schmidt sent the puck my way. As soon as it connected with my stick, I aimed a one timer at the top left of the net, but it was stopped as Nyberg, the goalie, deflected it.
"Good try, rookie," he said, tapping me with his stick before he got back into position.
Each time I raced down the ice, I felt myself loosening up and coordinating better with my linemates, even managing to sneak a goal past Nyberg before we switched to shooting drills. And when it was only me against the goalie, I made sure to vary my shots and take note of each adjustment the coaches suggested. After all, they knew what they were talking about, and I had faith they were only trying to make me a better player.
Time got away from me, and before I knew it, practice wound down with every player's version of hell—sprints. A drill which forced skaters to move as fast as they could for no more than a few seconds before turning around and doing it all over again. Sweat dripped down my face as I finished my fourth sprint and headed to the boards to grab a drink of water, only to be motioned back to the goal line when I did.
"One more sprint, Brookes," one of the assistant coaches called.
Without complaint, I followed his orders and raced across the ice, pushing through the burning sensation in my thighs. My lungs were screaming when I finally glided to a stop less than a minute later and Coach Davidson blew his whistle, signaling the end of practice.
"Good work men," he yelled, voice echoing throughout the rink. "Now hit the showers and make sure you're all here on time tomorrow so I don't have to kick anyone's ass."
Some of my teammates chuckled as they filed off the ice and headed for the locker room, but I stayed back, needing to skate a couple more laps to cool down.
It'd been a week since my first practice, and after being benched for the season opener on Friday—forced to watch from the sidelines as the rest of the team scraped out a win—Coach had put me on the game card for last night's game. I'd been used as a roaming winger though, playing on the fourth line or when other players were losing steam, and despite still gaining my footing, I knew I was capable of more.
