CHAPTER FOUR
Three days earlier
Noah
I squeeze into the luxurious elevator of the four-star hotel that team management booked me and meet the side eye of six designer-clad guests. They clearly find me too scruffy.
I fiddle with the sleeve of my hoodie.
I’m not in Boston on some vacation.
I’m here to start my life. The life I’ve been dreaming of since I first learned what hockey playing was and first learned some people made a career of it.
I’m in the fucking NHL.
I eat my egg white vegetable omelet and sip my bitter green juice, shoveling as many nutrients as possible into my body before I meet the team. My gaze flickers to the TV screen on one wall. Isaiah’s face and name flashes on the screen. The presenter bemoans that I’ve been called up, and that some guy on the second line will be Isaiah’s replacement.
My picture—not my best shot—flashes on the screen. One of the people from the elevator gives me a curious glance, and I answer with a tight smile. I gob the rest of my breakfast, then leave the hotel.
I cross the Charles River to Cambridge, where the Blizzards’ training facility is. The new arena is easy to spot. The Blizzards’ logo spans two stories. Bostonians are sports crazy, but only one team is owned by a super-rich Japanese billionaire. The buildingconsists of glass, steel, and the warm red brick found all over the city. Solar panels glint from the roof. If I didn’t know better, I might think it part of MIT or Harvard. A line of high school students and their teacher slinks down one side.
I explain to the security guard who I am, and he explains to me where the correct door is for the players. Equipped with a map and a few dubious looks—okay, I know I am not Isaiah, I find a wood-paneled hallway that exudes expense, then knock on the door of my new coach.
“Noah Fitzpatrick.” Coach Holberg shoots me a wide smile, emphasizing the “o” in my name with more force than most, and reminding me that he is from Sweden.
I can tell he’s a former athlete, but unlike other retired athletes who turn coaches, his figure is trim, his short beard immaculate. His eyes are a clear blue that don’t miss anything.
The man’s office is awesome. Slatted oak panels cover the walls, which is so much cooler than paint, though the best feature is the floor-to-ceiling view of the Charles. I would be casting wide smiles about if I had an office overlooking the water, too.
“Nice to see you, Noah. “Welcome to the Boston Blizzards.”
I stammer something about being grateful for the opportunity, then stammer something else about how I absolutely won’t let him down.
He gives a soft smile. He’s probably used to my speech.
“I’ll introduce you to the guys,” he says. “Training is optional today, but we’ll find some of them wandering around.”
“Thanks.” I nod more times than necessary, conscious of the way my stomach twists. I wonder if Finn Carrington will be here.
Ice water with lemon wedges sits in sleek water dispensers at regular intervals. Even the air here is fancier, clean, and crisper than any other locker room I’ve ever been in, no doubt due to superior air fresheners and circulation systems.
It’s strange to contemplate meeting one’s hero. I sort of wish I hadn’t watched every video Finn ever made, listened to every podcast interview, viewed every sports documentary with him in it, and, yes, watched every game he ever played too.
I know his clothes, I know his apartment, I know his every smile and every frown. Though Finn has way more smiles than frowns. The man exudes joy.
And yet, I don’t know him at all.
Coach gives me an odd look, and I hope I haven’t missed anything.
“Do you have a significant other back in Providence?” he asks. “The train between South Station and Providence is decent.”
“No. I split from my girlfriend last year. No one since.”
“Well, no long distance is good.”
“I’ll be 100% focused on hockey,” I assure him.
I was also 100% focused on hockey when I was with Abby, but I don’t tell him that. We would have broken up sooner if she hadn’t been a medical student and been too busy on her own work to notice I wasn’t around.
