It’s game 7. I feel a little god in my hands. I think I could convince the coach to let me into the game quite easily. You ever hear about rizz? I’ve got insane rizz. Skibidi rizz, even. There’s a certain look that people say that I could ask for the world with, and succeed. A certain expression that just utterly disarms and charms the layman, my facial muscles constructing an adversarial attack pattern that burrows past conscious reasoning and through millions of years of evolution directly into the lizard hindbrain. Once you get into the subconscious, all bets are off. It’s said that the evolutionary purpose of the suggestibility response of hypnosis was to aid in social bonding. Some say it’s a latent spiritual impulse. I say it’s just the trick up my sleeve to get me on the ice for those vital dying moments of the game.