Page 2 of Speed

“That is spunky pep talk! You will make good captain one day, little rabbit.” Pops draped a thick arm over my shoulder, tugged on the lapel of my navy suit, and pecked my head.

Captain talk was a giant leap. Right now, I’d be happy to be chosen at all.

It was a short distance to the venue, so we walked, the desert air making me sweat. Pops and Dad chattered the whole while. I was usually talkative, but this was too big of a moment, and my nerves were shot.

The coolness of the air-conditioned interior made me feel less twitchy. The armpits of my shirt were already damp, as was my collar. I should’ve cut my hair, but I liked it on the long side. My curls, courtesy of Dad, would look pretty epic hanging out of the ballcap the Railers GM would put on my head. If all went as I hoped. Let’s face it, flow was important.

The room where the draft was held was massive, with chairs on higher risers for the players and their families. On the floor, hundreds of NHL reps milled about tables set beneath a giant domed ceiling with the logos of each pro team.

I felt my guts tighten as our faces replaced the logos—hundreds of hopefuls on that massive screen. I found mine. I looked as goofy as I felt.

“This is big day,” Pops said by my ear. I nodded dully. I was caught between being excited and terrified. “If you need sugar snack, just shout. We both have pockets filled.”

“Thanks, Pops,” I whispered. Someone called my name. I found a familiar face, then another, and then another. “I see a few friends,” I told my fathers as we made our way to our seats.

“Go and talk to them. We’ll save your seat,” Dad said with a smile.

Lots of bro hugs. A small group of us from eastern division teams were shooting the shit, talking about where we hoped to play, girls, guys, and parents, when the prime cut of this year’s draft sauntered up. Cole Harrington III—Trick, to the rest of us mere mortals—strolled in with a woman on his arm who shut the whole room up. Dyna Bubble Mint. Yeah, that Dyna—the rapper whose debut track went gold two months ago. Apparently, first-round hopefuls get first pick of the rising stars, too. Still, I’m shocked she’s on Trick’s arm. Considering Trick’s dad was a fire-and-brimstone TV evangelist with a holy crusade against anything queer or trans, it’s honestly wild that Trick’s even allowed within ten feet of Dyna.

“Hey, Trick,” I said as he neared.

With Dyna on his arm, he strutted right past, as if he didn’t know me or the other guys. We all watched them stroll on by.

“Okay, dude, that was rude,” I grumbled at Trick’s back.

He surely heard me but continued to his seat, an entourage following in his wake—not one of them looking like they were his parents. I shot the rest of the guys in my little chat circle a glance. They all shrugged. We all knew Trick was an asshole at times, probably inherited from his dad, and we’d all heard his homophobic shit—again, probably genetic. Sure, he had stupid skills. But no matter how good he was—and the shithead was good—he would be going to the worst team in the league. So sure, be smug, but notthatsmug. Most hockey players were humble to the nth—it was drummed into us from peewee up. Even great talents like Crosby, McDavid, and Madsen-Rowe were always respectful. They didn’t walk around with their noses in the air. They were salt of the earth, as the play-by-play guys liked to say.

“Hope he has fun playing to the fifteen Atlanta Phantoms fans who are showing up to watch them lose,” Craig Smythe, a hella nice guy and winger from Harvard, sneered. Being little brats, we all nodded. If anyone could use a good comeuppance, it was Trick.

“Truth,” I added.

“You think he knows that Dyna is…” Craig waved at his crotch and then blushed when I raised an eyebrow. He knew Margo, my sister, had transitioned. “I don’t mean… I just meant… fuck… his homophobic ass is going to be shocked when he finds a…” again with the crotch waving. I stared at him, humored him, and he slunk in his seat. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that, I meant… Jesus… I’m shutting up now.”

“Probably for the best,” I deadpanned, and then shoved Craig. Hard. He ducked his head, still bright red, and muttered another sorry. He was a nice guy—more than that, really—and I knew he didn’t mean any harm, but he needed to understand that it wasn’t okay to reduce people to parts or labels like that.

When the lights dimmed, we all wished each other good luck and returned to our seats. I was wedged between Pops and Dad. My right leg began jumping. I could feel my tension creeping up, although I was sure I’d not be chosen tonight. The extra day of waiting was going to be torture, but we all sat through it. We clapped at each announcement, even Trick, who was grabbed up by the Atlanta team as predicted. The night was long but enjoyable.

“You will go second round for sure, I am predicting,” Pops said as we made our way to our hotel around midnight. I’d been feeling lethargic, so we’d headed out after the final pick of the first round had been called up.

I bobbed my head in agreement. Second would be cool. Third fine. Fourth totally acceptable. Hell, lots of great players had been drafted low. A famous New York goalie had been a seventh-round pick, and he had made a name for himself that had gotten him into the HHOF.

I hit the sheets early, curling up to rest and talk to Rachel Biggs, my ex-girlfriend from school. She and I had dated throughout our junior and senior years, but as graduation had gotten closer, and my departure to Boston grew nearer, we agreed to part but stay friends.

She was also a theater major packing up to move to Manhattan. We talked about that for a long time, and her cat Mojo, and her little sister who was still crushing on me, she said. When I yawned in her pretty face, she gave her long, dark hair a flip, played all affronted, and told me to get some sleep. She wished me luck, blew me a kiss, and ended the call.

Sleep was elusive that night, but it finally came after I recited the script fromMacBethin my head. I conked out at the line about my dull brain, which was on track.

The next morning, I was up early, took a swim instead of singing to greet the day, and met my fathers for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. I had an omelet, bacon, and some sautéed mushrooms. Coffee with a shot of milk that I had to count for my daily carb intake, but fuck it, I liked milk now and again. Even the most dedicated low-carb follower gave into temptation. Not like it was a milkshake. Those were my Achilles heel. Nothing lured me to the dark side like a chocolate shake.

After the meal, we changed into suits and returned to the vast, domed room for rounds two through seven. It promised to be a damn long day for guys who weren’t chosen until the last round or not at all, which happened. I hoped that wasn’t my fate.

Thankfully, it wasn’t. At ten forty-five in the morning, June 28th, three weeks after the Stanley Cup final, I was picking at the hem of my shirt sleeve when the Railers reps filed onto the stage. My attention moved from my sleeve to the man holding a Railers jersey on stage. We were into the third round now, and as soon as my face and stats flared brightly on the screen behind the Railers people, Pops shouted in glee. I blinked twice to ensure I was seeing what I was seeing and not having a low-sugar fantasy.

Nope, it was me. Sixty-fourth overall. Not too shabby.

I rose as the crowd applauded, hugged my teary-eyed fathers, and made my way to the stage. A showgirl in a sparkly silver outfit took my jacket. I jogged up the stairs, shook hands with people, and then, pulled that famed dusky blue and gray sweater over my head. Someone–the GM, I think–plunked a hat down on my head. Pictures were taken. I was led off the stage to schmooze with Railers’ upper management.

“Welcome to the team, Noah,” Tristen Routers, the Railers’ new owner, said as we waited for my parents to join us backstage. “You’re planning on going to college, right?”

---