Page 79 of Puck Shots
“It was iced, they shot the puck from inside their own half, it crossed the goal line untouched, so now the face-off comes back to their defensive zone,” Ash explains, his head onlyslightly turned in my direction. He’s leaning forward in his chair intensely; gaze locked on the players waiting for the puck to drop.
One minute left.Come on, Cosmo, you got this. Hold the lead.
The second the puck drops, Luka has his stick to it and flicks it back to Chang, who then sends it back to Greg, further away from the goal they are supposed to be headed towards. Then it gets sent to Cosmo, back to Greg, back to Luka, then to Cosmo, who has picked up his speed and is flying toward the goalie. My heart’s racing, hands sweaty, fuck, if I’m like this, I can only imagine how Cosmo is feeling right now.
Luka’s pass is perfect. The puck connects, and Cosmo spins with it as if going to change directions or pass back to another player, but he goes full circle and shoots. The goalie’s glove comes up as the puck flies toward the right corner of the net. An audible gasp sounds around me, or from me, I can’t even tell right now. Then the horn sounds, and we’re all on our feet, hands raised in the air, cheering.
“Woooooo, go Cosmo!!!!!” I cheer along with his family and two-thirds of the crowd around us. Cosmo flies behind the net and then up the ice, raising his stick in the air and pumping his fist to the cheer of the crowd.
Thirty seconds to go.
If the crowd was on the edge of their seats before, it’s like they sit on a knife’s edge now, every person in the building ignoring anything but the game in front of them. I’m trying to watch Cosmo, but my eyes keep moving to the clock as it counts down. Ten, nine, eight… this is it. He’s done it. Two…one.
“Wooooo,” I cheer as the final buzzer sounds and every player in Cosmo’s team barrels over the wall onto the ice.
“I told you he’d win,” I yell over the deafening screams of the crowd, and Calvin turns.
“You never doubted for a minute, did you?”
“Nope. My guy put everything into his game this year, no way was he not making this dream happen.”
27
Cosmo
This morning was a blur of texts and phone calls from family and friends and teammates wishing me luck for today. I think I ate something. I remember Mom shoving something soft and round into my hands, and me maybe chewing, but that’s it. In between then and now, I’ve showered and changed into the most well-fitted suit I’ve ever owned. “Gotta look good for your big moment,” Mom had said when she took me to the tailors to have it made. It has to have cost a small fortune. Fuck, when I think of all the money they’ve spent on supporting my dream, supporting this, me, this is what it has all been leading up to. The day my life could change.
“You got this,” Eli says, squeezing my hand as we follow my parents into TD Garden, where they’re hosting this year’s NHL draft. Boston hasn’t hosted a draft in over twenty years, so it’s packed. Not that the draft is ever not packed. I’ve only ever watched it on television.
“Good to see you again,” Greg Love says, shaking my parents’ hands. “Are you ready?” Greg asks me next, and my mouth goes impossibly dry.
“No,” I reply, and he chuckles.
“You’ll be fine, promise. Come on, your seats are this way,” he says, leading us past a few rows of seats before stopping and pointing down the line. Paper reserved signs rest over the seat backs with my name on them and just seeing it there, printed alongside the NHL logo sends my system into overdrive. Holy fucking shit, this is really happening.
Mom sits first followed by Dad, me, then Eli, Rachel, Tony, and Calvin. I wish Brent could be here for this, too. Of all my siblings, he’s been the one to have my back always, but I know he’ll be watching from home in the UK.
“Can I get you a water or anything?” Greg asks, but I shake my head. If I drink anything, I’ll have to pee, and if I’m in the bathroom when they call my name… if they call my name, then I’ll go down in history as the guy who missed his moment because of his bladder. No telling what nickname I’d get then.
“Well, I’ll check in on you later. Have fun, kid. You earned every minute of this.”
“Thanks,” I say, and Eli gives my hand another small squeeze.
He leans in to whisper in my ear. “How big are you freaking out right now?”
“I’m at about one thousand,” I say, and he slides my sleeve up a little and unbuttons the cuff of my shirt.
“Look,” he says, and I turn my attention to where his soft fingertip traces the outline of the now permanently tattooed lightning bolt on my inner wrist. Then he turns his wrist up to show me the matching one on his. The permanent reminder to us both that we’ll always have a piece of each other. I skim my fingers over his tattoo, up his palm, and then clasp his hand in mine.
“What if no team picks me? Boston has the fifth pick and Chicago has seventh in the first round. They both made a point to tell me that, so it could be either of them, right? Or did I ask what pick they got at one of the lunches or dinners? Then it might be neither of them.” I say, my voice trembling a little.
“Greg said you’re expected to be a first-round pick, right?” he asks, and I nod, the gravity of that fully hasn’t sunk in. Like most of the legends I’ve been looking up to my whole life weren’t first round picks, how the fuck am I expected to be one?
Eli leans in closer, his breath sending a shiver up the side of my neck when he speaks.
“Greg wouldn’t be telling you that if he wasn’t really positive it would happen, would he?”
“I guess, but what if I’m not picked, like, at all?”
