Page 2 of Second-Rate Superstar
As I mulled over that thought, the commissioner of the league stepped up to the podium to announce the final pick of this year’s draft. It was time for him to put me out of my misery.
Leaning into the microphone, he said, “This year, it seems we have a little excitement coming into our final pick. The Chicago Crush have traded their seventh-round pick this year to the Connecticut Comets for their seventh-round picks the next two years.”
Jaxon gave me a slight nudge with his elbow, and what the commissioner was saying sank in.
The Comets . . .
No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please, God, no.
“With the 224thpick in the draft, this year’s Mr. Irrelevant, the Connecticut Comets select Braxton Slate, a forward from the US National Junior Team.”
My parents, Jaxon, and my girlfriend, Lacey, rose to their feet, but I was glued to my chair.
Being dubbed this year’s Mr. Irrelevant, the final draft pick, was bad enough, but at least that usually meant you were going to a team that was that year’s champions. This was worse. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that strings had been pulled out of pity. The Comets felt bad that their star player’s brother was about to go undrafted and made sure that didn’t happen.
My dad threw me a glare, forcing out through teeth clamped down in a fake smile, “Get up. You’re embarrassing us.”
Hewas embarrassed? I was the kid whose big brother had to swoop in and “save” the day.
I stood, letting my family hug me and my girlfriend kiss me, before walking on autopilot to the stage.
How the hell was I supposed to separate myself from Jaxon now that we would be playing for the same team? And after the stunt he just pulled, I could forget about working my way up through the minors after college. I wouldn’t put it past him to have me out on a shift with him—the left wing to his center.
If I was going to be thrown into the deep end—and likely the national spotlight—I would have to make these next four years count. Improving my game and preparing for the professional stage would take every ounce of my focus.
Lucky me.
The draft rotated between the cities housing professional teams; this year, it was Vegas’s turn to host. As soon as the press cleared the arena, I grabbed Lacey and stepped out onto the Strip. Pulling her behind me, I couldn’t get away from that arena fast enough.
Stumbling to keep up in her heels, she whined, “Braxton! Slow down!”
At eighteen, we couldn’t enjoy the drinking or gambling that Sin City had to offer, but there were plenty of attractions within walking distance for us to enjoy. Not that this trip was for pleasure. Oh no, the business of the rest of my life was the sole purpose of our trek to the desert, and for a split second, I wished I’d never set foot on the ice.
Chest heaving, I stumbled to a stop before the famous dancing fountains, leaning on my elbows over the concrete railing. Closing my eyes, I prayed that when I opened them, I would find this all to have been a bad dream.
Any team would’ve been better than the Comets. Hell, not getting drafted would have been preferable.
Jaxon had already been in the league for almost a decade, but knowing him, he’d find a way to stretch out his career. I’d never have a chance to branch out on my own, make a name for myself.
“Braxton, we need to talk.” Lacey’s voice filtered over the music accompanying the fountains.
Groaning, I forced my eyes open and turned to face her.
We had been together for a couple of years now. Since I first took a spot on the National Junior Team in Detroit—yet another spot granted to me by virtue of being Jaxon’s little brother, the anticipated yet predictablydisappointing sequel. She was a local girl, and we’d met at the rink after one of my games.
Dad made sure to lecture me every time he came to visit or when he made his weekly calls that having a girlfriend was a distraction. Telling me it took time and focus away from what I’d come to Detroit to do—play hockey. Not to mention the warnings about what would happen if I managed to knock her up.
Michael Slate was deadly serious when he said it had better be worth it because I’d be marrying whatever girl I got in trouble—prior relationship or one-night stand, it wouldn’t matter. That threat didn’t bother me because Lacey was the girl for me. When the team went on long bus rides for away games, we spent hours on the phone talking about our future. She planned to follow me wherever I got drafted—back when that hadn’t been in doubt—and if she could support me during the early days of my career, I would take care of her when it took off.
It seemed so simple. But what did we know? We were a couple of stupid kids.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I sighed. “What is it, Lace? If you haven’t noticed, I’m not having the best day.”
Her brown eyes assessed me for a beat before she said, “I can’t do this anymore.”
I was not in the mood for her habit of talking in riddles. Not today.
“Can’t do what?”
