Early ice, the quiet kind, Where ghosts of games still haunt the mind. A mother’s voice, a father’s light, The ones who stood through every fight. Laces tied with shaking hands, Cheered by the one who understands. The crowd may roar, the bench may shift— But love’s the loudest kind of lift. Blades down. Heads high. Charge fast. Ice flies. No rest. No strings. Steel cuts through sacred things. Frozen grit becomes our creed. Puckheads skate—together we lead. Together we lead. Together we lead. No name in lights, no stat to show, Just warmth through every freezing road. She fought the doubt you couldn’t hear Held your fear year after year. The fuel, the flame, the guiding light The ride to games, the tears held tight. She stayed when others turned away, The soul behind your game-day play. Blades down. Heads high. Charge fast. Ice flies. No saints. No kings. We rise on fractured wings. Skate with purpose, not with greed. Puckheads skate—together we lead. Together we lead. She’s the hum beneath the rink, The thought that pulls you from the brink. Her absence fills the air like smoke, A vow in every word she spoke. And though her seat might now be bare, You feel her pulse still beating there. Some never saw her standing tall, But she was the backbone through it all. You wear the bruises, bear the load, She carried half of every road. Not every hero holds a stick— Some whisper strength that simply clicks. You skate for wins—but more than that— For the one who got you where you’re at. Blades down. Heads high. Charge fast. Ice flies. No thrones. No rings. We fight with broken wings. Skate through pain, defy the bleed. Puckheads skate—together we lead. Together we lead
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