Page 7 of Gamechanger

"Of course, and thanks for the good wishes. And hey, you keep skating circles around those giants, okay?"

I watched Moose walk away, and I realized my cheeks and gut were both sore from so much smiling and laughing. My drive home was a blur as our conversation replayed on a loop inside my head.

Later that evening, as I sat on the edge of my bed, I pulled out a box of old photographs and mementos I'd chosen to move. Except for the distant hum of traffic outside the window, the room was silent. Holding a framed photo of my family, I looked at my mom's smile, my dad's proud, firm expression, and my older brother's mischievous grin.

My finger trembled as I traced the outlines of their faces on the glass. I hadn't expected such an intense round of homesick feelings. Instead, I'd thought I'd be far too busy and focused on hockey to miss much of anything. That wasn't true.

I set the photo on the bed and pulled a small, worn notebook out of the box. It was my favorite sketchbook during my final college year. As I flipped through the pages, I smiled at my notes and doodles. They covered a lot of ground—motivational quotes, jokes with friends, and a few dreams about the future.

But now, sitting alone in my apartment that still smelled new, those dreams felt distant. The pressure to prove myself on the team was immense, and the constant undercurrent of doubt gnawed at my confidence. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I couldn't handle the physicality of the game?

I sighed and rubbed my temples, trying to shake off the negative thoughts. The loneliness was the hardest part. Back home, I had my family, my friends—a support system that always had my back. Here, it was just me, facing challenges that made me think I was climbing a mountain without knowing what was on the other side.

My phone buzzed, startling me out of my thoughts. I reached for it, hoping for a distraction. It was a text from Moose:

Hey, Finn. Just wanted to say you did great today. Don't let the giants get you down.

I smiled. Somehow, Moose knew that I needed a boost. I typed back:

Thanks so much.

Almost immediately, he responded:

Anytime, man. You're not alone in this. We’re all in it together. Btw, tried maple seaweed again. Still weird, but I think it’s growing on me. ??

You're crazy, but I love it. Catch up soon?

Absolutely. Keep your head up. You're stronger than you think.

I set the phone on the coffee table, feeling a little lighter. The conversation with Moose reminded me I wasn't alone. I had teammates who believed in me and friends who saw potential in me even when I struggled to see it myself.

Taking a deep breath, I stood and walked over to the window. The city sprawled out before me, a sea of lights, bridges, and pine trees.

I thought about what Coach Fraser had said, about using my speed and agility to my advantage. I knew I'd have to work on my board battles and my play in the dirty areas. Being strong on my stick and using my low center of gravity could help me come away with the puck more often than not.

Turning back to the box of memories, I picked up a small hockey puck keychain—a gift from my dad when I made my first travel team as a kid. I squeezed it in my hand, grinning at the memory. It was time to show everyone, including me, what I could do.

As I slid beneath the sheets to sleep with the photo of my family on the nightstand, I whispered into the darkness, “I’ll make all of you proud.”

I dreamed wild dreams of skating on a rink made of maple syrup, weaving between players wearing flannel and carryinga plate holding a stack of pancakes. Moose stood at the side, cheering me on and holding up score cards for my puns.

When I woke, I had a smile on my face and a flutter in my stomach. Whatever was happening with Moose, whatever these feelings were, I knew one thing for sure—I couldn't wait to see him again.

Chapter three

Moose

As I climbed out of my car in the parking lot, the Lumberjacks' arena loomed large ahead of me, its sleek architecture revealing nothing about my potential fate inside. It was interview time, sink or swim. I tugged at my tie, wondering if the Windsor knot was too formal. Maybe I should have gone with a half-Windsor? Or ditched the tie altogether? Too late to change course now.

My dress shoes clacked against the polished stone floors as I walked to one of the back offices, tucked neatly into the yawning space beneath the stands. Lumberjack logos and banners constantly reminded me of the building's athletic performances, but I was there for a different kind of presentation.

I settled into a sleek, modern, leather-upholstered chair in the waiting area with my briefcase balanced precariously on my knees. The sounds spoke of quietly efficient work behind the scenes: the soft whir of a distant photocopier, muted tones of a phone conversation, and occasional gentle laughter.

A large, framed poster of the Lumberjacks' starting lineup dominated one wall of the room, and the players' determined faces stared down at me. They were all familiar, particularly that of my best friend, Quinn, and I wondered whether Finn would show up on a new version of the poster soon.

I drummed an edgy, erratic rhythm on my briefcase with my fingers to calm my nerves. Alerted by the noise, the receptionist looked up and smiled politely. I did my best to force my hands to still. Bouncing knees were quieter.

A glass case nearby housed some team memorabilia, but it was mostly empty, a testament to the Lumberjacks' status as an expansion team in their first year. While my gaze lingered on a few game pucks and a signed stick, I dreamed about contributing to the team's legacy, not on the ice but behind the scenes.

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