Page 80 of Puck Shots
Eli turns my face towards him, and when I settle my gaze on his bright smiling eyes, my pulse starts to steady.
“The chances of that are almost zero,” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
“You’re a science guy, you know that’s not true,” I say, and he shrugs.
“Actually, based on the media coverage, the prediction lists, you know, all those things you’ve been trying to avoid so you don’t spiral and freak out.”
I nod.
“Well, when you take those and the fact you’ve had multiple meetings with at least three different teams in just the past month, I’m confident in my statistic.”
“But what if—”
“Stop. Have you even known a player to be here and not be drafted?”
Has that ever happened? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it actually happening, but I could be the first. That thought sends my nerves back into overdrive.
“The answer is no, and it’s the answer to the other question rolling around in your head, too,” Eli says, and I meet his gaze. His soft, kind eyes smiling back at me. “You won’t be the first it happens to. This is your day. Enjoy it. You’ve worked so hard to get here, this is it. You’ve done it.”
And with that, the commissioner steps out onto the stage and the crowd goes wild.
Eli settles back into his chair, his hand still clasped with mine as we watch it all begin. I try to focus on one thing at a time as a way to control that nervous energy bubbling inside. The camera occasionally pans to me and the family, and I smile, hoping I don’t look as terrified as I feel. But every now and then I catch a shot on one of the big screens showing a replay of one of my games, and I start to realize, this is actually awesome. This whole thing is amazing.
The atmosphere in TD Graden is electric, the media and public attention driving up the excitement levels, and when I go to swallow and find my mouth thick, I’m second guessing declining the drink offer.
Almost like he’s read my mind, Eli reaches down and pulls a small water bottle from a bag I didn’t even see him carry in.
“Here, take small sips,” he says, handing it over, and I smile down at where the label has been torn from the bottle.
The commissioner calls out the first pick. It isn’t me. It was unlikely it was going to be me. Greg would have said if he thought I could be top five, wouldn’t he? I cheer and clap as each name gets called, they walk on stage, put on their team jersey and hat, and wave for the cameras. It’s all so surreal to even be in the crowd for this. I watch every year, cheering when my favorites get picked but now it’s my turn to be the one people cheer for.
“With the fifth selection for this year’s NHL draft, The Boston Basilisk, are proud to select, from Boston University…”
Could this be it? Eli squeezes my hand, or I’m squeezing his. I’m not sure which. I wait, bated breath as the commissioner pauses, smiling into the card in his hands, reveling in the fact that he knows what I am desperate to hear. Is it me? Is it Luka? He’s sitting somewhere in this sea of people waiting, probably as nervous as I am. They should have sat us together.
The commissioner looks up from the card. “Cosmo Parks.”
Wait, did I hear that right?
Eli jostles my arm.
“It’s you, Cos, you got picked,” he says, and I stand, my heart beating so loud it’s thumping in my ears as Mom steps around Dad to hug me. I got picked fifth. I got picked fifth in the first round of the NHL draft by Boston. I’m staying in Boston. Eli is in Boston. Fuck yes. Oh, my God. How is this not a dream?
“Congratulations, son,” Mom says into my ear, and when she lets go, I catch a tear rolling down her cheek. I’m going to still be close enough to visit home, too. Fuck. The Boston Basilisk want me.
Dad hugs me next, patting my back. “You did it, Cosmo. You made it,” he says.
“I made it,” I reply, but my voice comes out all squeaky so I turn, and Eli is there, wide smile, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold in his excitement so that he doesn’t launch himself at me live on camera for the world to see.
I can tell just by looking at him he’s about ready to burst. I haven’t hidden our relationship from anyone. Fuck, I even talked him up at my very first meeting with the exact team that decided to pick me.
So, I wrap my arms around him and spin him in place, not caring if he kicks my brother on the way round or who sees. Then I kiss him quickly before letting him go, a blush on his cheeks I will never tire of seeing.
“Go have your moment,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” I say, and he laughs.
“You’re not. You made it.”
