Page 109 of The Fine Line
Because you realize that thing you worked so hard for? It didn’t fix you. It didn’t change your life. Not really. Everything around you might look different, but at the end of the day, you’re still you.
I have to admit, that part made me pause.
But anyway, the point he was trying to make was that you should always aim higher than what’s attainable. Dream the impossible. That way, you’ll never reach it—and you’ll never lose the passion to chase it.
I thought it was bullshit.
And yet, somehow, I ended up doing exactly what he said. Falling right into the trap I created for myself.
My dream was always the NHL. It’s the dream every kid with a hockey stick has, but only a few ever make it. Most give up—once they start getting outplayed, benched, overlooked. Once the fire dies.
But for me, that didn’t happen.
I was one of the lucky ones. The older I got, the faster I rose. The tougher the competition, the harder I pushed. I adapted, outplayed, dominated. I spent more time on the ice than anyone. I became the best. I got used to being the best.
And then it happened.
I got drafted to the NHL.
I reached the goal I’d obsessed over my entire life. The one thing I believed would finally mean something. The achievement I thought would make me feel whole. The one that would make my parents proud. The final piece of the puzzle I’d been building since I was a kid.
But what I learned is—even a completed puzzle doesn’t feel whole. The lines between each piece never disappear. They’re fragile, waiting for something—or someone—to come along and scatter them. Break the image. Cram it all back in the box.
And there I was. That’s what I became.
Growing up, I got good at performing a role. I was the fun guy. The party boy. The friend who didn’t take anything seriously. The easygoing one who always had a joke. The golden boy with the hot streak.
It took twenty years to build that version of me. And only a few months in Chicago to destroy it.
By Christmas, the only parts of the puzzle still intact were the ones I was least proud of.
Because I was drafted to the NHL.
And Coach was right.
It didn’t change anything. Not in the way I hoped.
If anything, I felt less worthy than ever.
Getting selected early in the draft is supposed to be an honor. But what people forget—or conveniently ignore—is that the top picks usually go to the worst teams.
That’s how I ended up with the Chicago Blizzard.
And even there, even on one of the worst teams in the league, I felt out of my depth.
My whole life, I’d been the best. Or tied for best, if Bennett was on my team. I’d admit that. But now? I was surrounded by every team’s best. I was no longer the standout. Not even on a team struggling to win one game out of five.
At first, I was angry. Determined. I wanted to earn my place. I wanted to prove myself.
But I was just a rookie voice drowning in a sea of veterans who were as tired and frustrated as I was. And Holt? He made it his mission to make my life hell. If it were up to him, I’d have been benched for good. But the team had invested too much in me for that, so instead, he did everything he could to make playing under him miserable.
And it worked.
I felt powerless. Worthless.
I guess Dad was right all along.
And he certainly let me know it the two times I managed to get my parents on the phone in the first three months I’d been in Chicago. That didn’t feel great. But somehow, them not answering felt worse. And it only hurt more every time I tried.
