Page 197 of Staying Selfless

I’ve wondered which team’s logo I would be wearing across my chest.

I’ve even visualized the most important people in my life, watching from the stands.

And since I met her, I’ve pictured Logan sitting behind the bench. The last thing I ever imagined was her being absent from the crowd the day I became a professional hockey player.

This week has been pure torture, being away from her and trusting my family when they tell me she’s okay. I’m sure she is because she’s a fucking badass, but being across the country from her and not able to check for myself has been killing me.

On top of that, my stomach has been in knots all week while I try to chase this dream that I’m not sure I even care about anymore. Hockey no longer feels like the most important thing in my life, not even close, actually. But here I am, working towards something I used to want with my entire being, all the while wishing I were back in Minnesota.

I’m sure I would feel differently if the accident hadn’t happened the same day I got called up. I was freaking the fuck out, exploding with excitement when I got the call that I was going to play in the NHL, but things quickly changed when I got home.

And even though this dream feels unworthy of my attention right now, I’ve had Logan’s voice ringing in my head all week. She will kill me if I let this opportunity slip through my fingers. This dream might be more hers than mine at this point. I know she wants to see me fulfill this goal I’ve worked towards my entire life, so for her, I’m going to do it.

As the team buses pull up to the United Center in downtown Chicago, my heart begins to beat a little faster. The adrenaline starts pumping through my veins as I stand from my seat, coffee in hand, and walk off the bus into the player’s entrance of the arena.

I’ve been to the Raptors’ stadium countless times. In fact, Chicago was my favorite team as a child, seeing as they were only two hours away from my hometown in Indiana. However, I’ve never walked through the back halls of this building, and suddenly it’s all starting to sink in.

I did it.

I made it.

But she’s not here, so it doesn’t feel right.

Wearing my slim-fit navy-blue suit, I sip my coffee and take in my surroundings on the way to the visiting team’s locker room. The walls are plastered with the history that’s been made in this building. The six Stanley Cup championship teams are framed along the hall. The legacy that was Jordan, Pippen, and Rodman, dominating the NBA in the nineties, cannot go unnoticed as it covers the walls.

This building holds countless memories, and tonight it’ll be ingrained in me too, as I officially become a member of the National Hockey League.

My throat is thick with nerves when I walk into the locker room for the first time, my jersey hanging in a stall, completely decked out with my name and number. I’ve seen my last name sprawled on the green material all week during practice while in Dallas, but now that it’s game day, it finally feels real.

Once fully suited up in my pads and uniform, I sit in my stall and pull out my phone. My knees won’t stop bouncing as I wait to hit the ice for the first time in my professional career, so I’m currently trying to distract myself from the nerves. I find multiple texts waiting for me from my family and college teammates, but my favorite is from Logan—no shocker there.

L: Could not be more proud of you if I tried. I hope you take it all in tonight. You deserve this, Eli, so let yourself be proud and in the moment. I wish I were there to see you take the ice for the first time, but I’m watching from here. I love you, 13!

Her sweet text reminds me of the note she wrote me the morning of Senior Showcase while we were in this same city. I flip my phone over to find it displayed in my protective case, ready for me to read, the same as I have before every game since she wrote it.

‘Remember how great you are today. You deserve all the recognition you’re about to get.’

A smile tugs at my lips, seeing the ‘-L’ as her signature. I know she did that as a way to subtly give me shit for writing my three-letter name as ‘E’ anytime I leave her a note. But I don’t care. It’s one of those things I reserve just for her.

I haven’t seen her face since I left for Dallas five days ago. She’s been in and out of sleep and needs to keep her eyes off screens due to her concussion, so we’ve kept our communication to phone calls and a few texts here and there, no video chats yet. But Marc said that she’s been feeling more alert, and she’s planning to watch my entire game on TV, so maybe a quick FaceTime call wouldn’t hurt. And maybe what I need to get my head in this game is to see her face before I take the ice.

“Hey, how much time do we have before we head out?” I ask one of our defensemen, sitting in the stall next to mine.

“About twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.” I stand from my seat, heading into the bathroom. The central part of the locker room is buzzing with pre-game excitement, guys shooting the shit, and music blasting from the speakers, so I head into the farthest stall of the restroom, hoping to get some silence.

As I wait for Logan to answer my call, my own reflection looks back at me on the phone screen.

I look like shit.

I’ve barely slept since I left Minnesota. Partly because I haven’t had Logan next to me, but mostly because guilt has been keeping me awake as it gnaws at me. Not to mention the overwhelming sadness that hits like a ton of bricks every time I remember that Logan was pregnant with our child, and now she’s not.

“Hi!” Logan beams, the proudest smile on her face as she looks at me through the phone.

Before I can respond, my eyes immediately dart to the gash on her forehead, then to her right eye, which has a ring of purple flesh around it. The cuts and bruises don’t change how beautiful she is, but it does remind me of what happened last week.

“Hi, baby,” I finally say with a deep swallow.

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