“I mean...you're not wrong. And he's not old.”
He snorts at this.
“Fucking shame he's a homophobe.”
“Tell me about it. How was your day?”
Even though Avery and I started at UCLA at the same time, he blew out his knee in the first game of our senior year. So while I went through the draft, he returned to school on a medical redshirt, hopeful for another shot at his senior season.
“Well, the latest imaging is 'inconclusive', which apparently means they don't fucking know anything. Will I play this year? Maybe. Will I still be in pain in a decade? Maybe. Who the fuck knows at this point?”
This is the other reason I called Avery – for the reminder of how fucking lucky I am to be in this tiny hotel room in this godforsaken city playing for this losing team.
“That blows, man. You keeping up on your rehab?”
“Like clockwork. They're gonna look again in a couple weeks. So what are you gonna do about Tremblay?”
Clearly we're back to my problems now.
“What can I do? Get him to reconsider his entire stance on homosexuality in the next nine days?”
“Is it just him? Or do the rest of them suck, too?”
“Who fucking knows? The goalie's chill. The rest of them seem...distant, I guess?”
“Well, then the answer is simple. You're just going to have to be better than all of them – good enough that even Tremblay sees that the team needs you.”
“Simple, huh?” Just be the very best, that's all.
“For you, Jamie? Yeah. I think it's that simple.” A shadow crosses his face as he looks down, and I remember that for him, just working harder isn't going to give him the answers he needs, either.
“Sounds like a plan, I guess.”
There isa quiet rumble of conversation in the locker room – mostly veterans talking about their summers. It sounds like Gagnon, one of the returning centers, went to Cozumel while Johnny Mackenzie – Tremblay’s defensive partner – took his girlfriend to the Bahamas. They're comparing and contrasting the beaches of each. Still, as the words float around the locker room, I see eyes floating toward me.
This isn't my first fucking day on Earth, so I keep my head down and face into my stall. The last thing I need is for someone to think I looked at them the wrong way in this locker room.
I'm not the only rookie in the room. There are the others taken in the draft, including a kid called Finn who turned nineteen on September 12 – I remember because it’s so close to my own birthday. He looks about twelve, all eager big eyes. There are also some guys here who spent last year with the Des Moines team. They'll be the bigger competition, putting their everything into making the big league. Evan Matthews in particular has been centering the first line for the AHL team; most analysts seem to think they’ll find a spot for him in Minneapolis this year.
Even coming in as the first round pick, I know there is no guarantee I get to stay here. I've got to put my all into these days. As I pull my sweater over my head, I see Anders Lindholm approaching me hesitantly. When he’s healthy, he plays left wing on the first line – and ideally, the right wing will belong to me.
“Welcome to Minneapolis.” He says, shaking my hand.
“Thanks, man. Excited to be here.” Or at least I've decided to pretend to be.
“I saw you in the Frozen Four last year. Fucking unreal goal in the last game.”
Ok, this is a good sign. And I can talk about hockeyall day.
“Aw, thanks man. Could never have managed it without the awesome blocking from my defense.”
“Well, you'll have plenty of that here. Great defense. Great goalie.”
I notice he leaves out the offense.
It's not that the offense isn't good. They've got some strong pieces, including Lindholm. But over the past five years, they've struggled to keep enough of them healthy for long enough to put together a rhythm. I know that's one reason I was drafted – so that I could be the missing piece, the thing that brings back the great days of Minneapolis hockey.
No pressure.
