Page 112 of Play Along With Me
"It's true," my father confirms, shaking my hand before pulling me into a more restrained but equally emotional embrace. "The guys at the hardware store are probably ready to ban me at this point."
"Congratulations, man," Collin says, approaching with a beer extended. "Always knew you had it in you. Well, I knew when Ryan and Mike told me, which is basically the same thing."
I accept the beer with a laugh. My relationship with Collin has evolved into something approaching actual friendship over the months, largely due to Audrey's remarkably effective diplomatic skills. And the fact that he was her neighbor.
"Marshall!" Saunders calls from across the room. "Get over here so we can properly toast our new number one!"
I make my way through the apartment, accepting congratulations from everyone present. Kevin Wooledge claps me on the shoulder with genuine enthusiasm.
"I told you Boston was the right fit," he says. "Though I'll never forgive you for not considering my Burnham offer."
"You saw something in this one early," I acknowledge, gesturing toward Audrey, who's now deep in conversation with Culkin's girlfriend. "I trust your judgment."
Kevin follows my gaze, smiling. "Some scouts just have an eye for potential. On and off the ice."
Horak hands me a shot glass of what I assume is Czech liquor. "To Marshall, who will be stopping even more of my shots in practice now that he's officially the boss of the crease!"
"I stopped them all anyway," I counter, earning a round of good-natured jeers from my teammates.
"Only in your dreams!" Saunders laughs. "But seriously, you earned this, Jake. The whole room is behind you."
The validation from these veterans—players I've respected and studied for years—hits me almost as hard as the contract itself. In hockey, there's no more important endorsement than that of your teammates.
Audrey appears at my side, slipping her arm through mine. "Food's getting cold, NHL goalie. And I've prepared a special celebratory cocktail that I've named 'The Five Hole.' Don't ask what's in it."
"Now I'm definitely asking what's in it," I say, pulling her closer.
"Trade secret," she winks. "Bartender-client privilege."
As everyone gathers around the food—an impressive spread of Chipotle catering that includes every possible combination of proteins, rice, beans, and toppings—I take a moment to observe the scene. My parents chatting with Leila, who's gesturing animatedly in a way that suggests she's recounting one of Audrey's more embarrassing stories. Kevin and Balcerzak engaged in what appears to be a serious discussion of defensive systems. Collin actually making Saunders laugh with some anecdote. Ryan and Mike are watching me with pride, raising their glasses.
And Audrey, moving through it all with the social grace that continues to amaze me given her self-proclaimedawkwardness. She's wearing a Saints t-shirt that she's customized with fabric paint to read "MARSHALL'S #1 FAN" across the back, paired with jeans and her ever-present mismatched socks. Her hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and she's wearing the glasses she only uses when her contacts are bothering her.
She's completely, utterly Audrey—unfiltered, authentic, not trying to be the perfect hockey girlfriend but simply being herself in a world she's adapted to without ever losing her essential nature.
As if sensing my attention, she glances up from where she's distributing her mysterious cocktails, catching my eye across the room. Her smile—the real one, not her public one—hits me with the same force it did the first time I saw it, warming places inside me I didn't even know were cold.
Later, after everyone has eaten their fill, my father calls for attention by tapping his glass with a spoon.
"I'd like to propose a toast," he says, his voice carrying the slight emotional roughness I've rarely heard from him. "To Jake, who has worked for this moment since he was old enough to stand on skates. Your mother and I have watched you pursue this dream through early mornings, late nights, injuries, setbacks, and everything in between. You never wavered, never took shortcuts, never let anything distract you from your goal."
He pauses, clearing his throat before continuing. "Until Audrey, of course." This earns a round of laughter and a theatrical bow from Audrey. "I am just kidding. Not even Audrey. You are the most deserving of this success, son. We are so proud of you."
"Hear, hear!" my mother calls out, raising her glass.
"To Jake," my father concludes. "The starting goaltender for the Boston Saints. And to those who've supported him on this journey—his team, his agents, his friends, and especially Audrey, who has somehow managed to understand both the man and the goalie."
"To Jake!" everyone echoes, raising their glasses.
I'm not an emotional guy, generally speaking. Hockey culture doesn't exactly encourage public displays of feeling. But in this moment, surrounded by the people who matter most to me, I feel something swell in my chest that can't be contained.
"Thank you all for being here," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "This means more than I can say."
My eyes find Audrey's again, and the look she gives me is worth more than any contract, any starting position, any professional achievement. It's understanding, pride, and love, all wrapped in that slightly sardonic Audrey packaging that says, "I'm not going to get sappy about this, but I'm incredibly happy for you."
The celebration continues for several hours, eventually winding down as teammates leave for family obligations, Collin heads out to "continue the party elsewhere" (some things never change), and Kevin departs with a final congratulatory handshake.
My parents, who are staying through the press conference tomorrow, leave with promises to return for breakfast, taking Leila with them in the Uber.
