Page 73 of The Fine Line
I just keep on grinning at her, not wavering. Because I don’t have to try to hide anything. Because it’s something I’ve becomean expert at by this point. I shoot her a wink, making her breathe out a laugh.
Teddy James turns his head my way then, looking past his wife and son to find my gaze. His lips pull tight, and he gives me a soft nod—one I know is meant to be reassuring. He has the same way of communicating wordlessly that his son does.
The room gradually grows quiet, and I turn my head forward to see a man taking the stage.
And with the silence of the room, my brain promptly begins screaming at me.
I force myself to sit tall, squaring my shoulders. But my head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and I find it falling forward. I focus on the spot on the ground between my feet, listening to the current speaker the best I can.
Time seems to slow as the first team takes the stage to make their pick.
It’s Anaheim.
I take a deep breath. I know there have to be eyes on me. Cameras, surely. People waiting for my reaction, whatever it might be. I wonder for a moment if my parents could be watching from wherever they are. Pretty sad that I don’t even know, isn’t it? I don’t honestly know if I’m hoping they’re watching or praying they aren’t.
I blow out the breath I realize I’ve been holding, letting my eyes fall shut. I think about Anaheim, trying to picture my life there. I try to imagine myself as a real NHL player. The greatest fantasy of my life. I ask myself if it could truly be real. I’m shaking my head before I even finish the thought.
There’s no chance.
They won’t want you.
Who would place their faith in you?
And then I hear the words.
“The Anaheim Hooks select…”
I open my eyes, zeroing in on the stage. And I swear, it’s as if the representative from Anaheim makes eye contact with me. My heart starts pounding in my ears, and it’s so loud that I don’t even process the next words at first.
“From Boston University?—”
And then it all fades out.
Because it’s not me.
Of course it’s not me.
Who would pick you?
My shoulders slump as my back hits the chair. I hear applause from all throughout the crowd and vaguely register movement toward the stage.
And suddenly, I know the answer.
I’m praying my parents aren’t watching. And I’m relieved they aren’t here.
Because I can feel my dad’s glare of disapproval anyway, and hear my mom’s sniff of indifference. I can hear both of their voices, clear as day, in my head.
The first team and their number one draft pick exit the stage. A man takes the stage next, stepping up to the podium. I think he’s wearing a red tie with his suit, but my vision is blurring too much to be sure.
What am I even doing here?
I shouldn’t be here. All those reports about me being a top draft pick were just to keep the rumor mill going. I’m a controversial pick. I’m a loud player. Everyone knows my name, and I can’t even say it’s always for good reason. Throwing my name around gets attention. It keeps people watching. But that’s nothing that should make an NHL team invest millions in me.
“With the second overall pick…”
I should go.
“...the Chicago Blizzard select…”
