Chapter 1: February 2009 1 February 2009 I jolt up in bed. I''m sweating. I can''t catch my breath. Relax, Mats , I think. I was standing in an empty dressing room with Brian Papineau, the Toronto Maple Leafs'' equipment manager. Something was wrong. My skate laces kept breaking. Sweat dripped into my eyes.

The damn laces wouldn''t thread. This would never happen in real life--Brian is way too good at his job. I couldn''t even tie my skates. We could hear the roar of the home crowd down the hall. We were losing the game and the clock was ticking. My teammates needed me, but I wasn''t there. I was stuck in the dressing room. For a team captain, there''s no worse feeling.

It''s my perfect nightmare. I turn on the bedside lamp. I need to get my bearings. Everything feels out of order on this cold February morning. I''m in Toronto, the city where I''ve lived since 1994. But I''m in a hotel room. My house on Dunvegan Road, three miles away, sits dark and empty. For fourteen years, hundreds and hundreds of times, I''ve woken up in Toronto, ready to start my game-day routine.

Breakfast. A short team skate down at our home rink, the Air Canada Centre. Home. Lunch. Nap. Pregame meal. Suit on. Pregame snack, coffee, water.

Back to the rink. Today is game day, so I''ll still follow that same routine. But there''s one big difference: tonight, I''ll suit up for the Vancouver Canucks. My last game as a Maple Leaf was nearly a year ago. It''s February 21, 2009. Toronto is enemy territory now. The Canucks arrived last night after a sound 5-2 win over the Ottawa Senators. I''d forgotten just how freezing Toronto could be in February--the sort of cold that seeps into your bones, a damp cold that reminds me of Stockholm.

A few guys on the plane asked me how I was feeling. They understood the significance; even the media in Ottawa were asking me about returning to Toronto. I played thirteen seasons as a Toronto Maple Leaf, eleven as the team''s captain. I''m the franchise''s all-time leader in points and goals. In the fall of 2008, after a complicated year, I signed to play the final stretch of my hockey career as a Vancouver Canuck. Last night, the drive to the hotel felt surreal. I''ve taken my normal route eastward from Pearson Airport to my house on Dunvegan hundreds of times. When the team bus turned south instead, my muscle memory tweaked.

Traffic was light. The CN Tower stood lit up among the skyscrapers. My teammates gave me space on the bus. I checked into my room and fell asleep easily enough. This morning, I don''t turn on the news. I stick to my routine. My breakfast consists of oatmeal and berries, toast, boiled eggs, fruit, coffee and juice--the same thing I''ve eaten on more than 1,300 game days. Routine has always been crucial to me.

I need it. It calms me and gets me ready to compete. At home or away, I keep things familiar and predictable. The rhythms of preparation help temper the knot in my stomach. Around 11 a.m., I get dressed and descend to the lobby to board the Vancouver team bus. We are headed to the Air Canada Centre for our morning skate.

I sit next to a younger teammate. "Nervous?" he asks. "A little." "Everyone will be happy to see you," he says. "They love you here." "I''m not so sure about that," I say. "It''ll be fine." This teammate has played professional hockey for a few years, but never in Toronto.

I''ve tried many times to explain the Toronto Maple Leafs to outsiders, whether it''s fellow pros from other teams or friends and family back in Sweden. The Maple Leafs'' history is long and storied and complicated. Dozens of reporters make a living writing solely about the Leafs, covering everything from trade speculation, to performance, to where players ate dinner last night, to what brand of hockey sticks we use. Every game is sold out. Despite decades without a Stanley Cup, fans are die-hard and loyal. Even when we''d play games in cities like Tampa or Los Angeles, half the fans in the building would be sporting our hometown blue and white. Leafs Nation is bigger than hockey. It''s its own universe.

Pulling on the Leafs jersey for every game was a great honor. This city became my home. Many of my friends live here. My fiancée, Josephine, moved here from Sweden to live with me. Strangers would call out, "Hey Mats!" on the street. As I said, Leafs Nation is hard to explain if you haven''t lived it. So, on the bus, I just nod to my well-meaning teammate. "Yeah," I say.

"It''ll be fine." We pull into the arena. The knot builds in my stomach as I get off the bus. The first person I see is Bill, the longtime usher. He offers me a warm and familiar smile. "Welcome back, Mats." I shake his hand, relieved. I''m intercepted by other staff, all offering the same warmth.

Everyone seems as happy to see me as I am to see them. I feel my shoulders relax. The visitors'' dressing room feels like a hidden domain I always knew existed but never crossed into. It''s nice, but not nearly as nice as the home dressing room on the other side of the rink. I''m not here to get lost in memories. I''m here to play hockey. I lock into the rhythms of getting ready for the morning skate. Equipment on, sticks taped, skates tied.

As soon as I step on the ice, I feel loose. This is familiar. It''s game day, so the skate is short. The coaches give us a few notes and send us on our way. Once showered and dressed, I wander down the hall to find Brian "Pappy" Papineau and the rest of the training and equipment crew. The walls in the equipment area are covered with the signatures of Leafs old and new. This staff was always such an important part of our team. Pappy is glad to see me.

We catch up for a few minutes. "Everyone''s excited," Brian says. I laugh. "Maybe not everyone." After so many years in Toronto, I know better than to subject myself to the media stories about my return. I''d done a few interviews over the past few days and the questions were all variations on a theme: Do you think you''ll be welcomed back? What if the fans boo you? Toronto fans may well boo me tonight. Eight months ago, I left Toronto after we failed to make the playoffs for the third straight year. There''d been a lot of tension after I refused a trade in mid-season and then departed at its end.

When I signed with the Canucks three months ago, the Toronto media demolished me. So, no, I wasn''t about to read what they were writing about me today. "We miss you, Mats," Brian says. I feel a lump in my throat. "I miss you guys, too." "Good luck tonight." I nod. Brian steps aside to let me pass.

Back at the hotel, I settle in, calmer. I always read a book and eat ice cream before my pregame nap. Today, my book is P. O. Enquist''s autobiography, A Different Life . Like my mother, Enquist is from Sweden''s far north. His memoir is about difficult life choices and regret, which is on point today. I''m relaxed.

I pull the hotel curtains shut, set my alarm and fall asleep. When I wake up ninety minutes later, the knot in my stomach has tightened. I dress in my suit and tie and head downstairs to eat a snack before gathering at the bus. By the time we pull into the rink''s underground parking lot, I''m in game mode. Focused, but anxious. I can remember being this nervous in 2006 before the Olympic gold medal game in Turin, or in 1992 at the World Championships, or right before a big playoff matchup. But these nerves are out of whack for a regular-season game in the middle of February. In the dressing room, I grab a coffee and my sticks.

Cutting and taping my sticks is a big part of my pregame routine. Sometimes I do two, sometimes three. Fifteen years ago, I didn''t need to warm up my body. But these days, at thirty-eight, I take twenty minutes on the stationary bike and a long sequence of stretches to ramp me up to game-ready. The clock ticks. I put on my gear, listen to the coaches and chatter with my teammates. As we stand to walk down the tunnel for our warm-up skate, the knot in my stomach twists. When I step onto the ice, there''s a small roar.

It''s thirty minutes to puck drop, and the stands are still half-empty. But the fans who are here aren''t booing at all. They might even be cheering. As I take my first lap, I hear someone call my name. "Mats! We love you!" I look up at a small boy standing by the glass. He''s holding a sign with a blue maple leaf and three words in bubble writing: Thank you, Mats . I catch myself smiling as I skate by. Back in the dressing room, coach Alain Vigneault announces the starting lineup.

My teammates are ready. It''s been a good week for the Canucks; we''re on a three-game winning streak. A trainer props the dressing room door open, and I can hear the fans getting louder. Everyone in the room is locked in. At the signal, the guys stand up. Some yell, while others stay quiet. We grab our sticks and vacate the room. I step onto the ice and remind myself to veer to the visitors'' side.

The crowd cheers again. I see many of my former teammates on the home side. Guys I played with for years are my opponents now. We stand for the pregame ceremony. I close my eyes when the anthem starts. O Canada, our home and native land . I hum along. I''ve long known the words by heart.

Almost twenty years ago, when I moved to Canada as a nineteen-year-old kid, it never occurred to me that this country would.