Page 20 of Play Along With Me
Oh god, here we go.
The entire team immediately swivels toward us, predatory grins appearing on faces that moments ago seemed exhausted from practice.
"I bet he's already picked out what underwear he's wearing," calls Allen, our first-line left wing.
"Hundred bucks says he stutters when Ambroz talks to him," adds King, a defenseman.
"Two hundred says he pees himself a little when Coach Tremblay watches him make a save," counters Martinez.
I flip them all off, but I'm smiling despite myself. This is how teams show they care—ruthless mockery wrapped in genuine support.
"You ladies done?" I ask. "Some of us have actual work to do instead of just skating around in circles looking pretty."
"Ohhh, he's cranky," Allen says in a stage whisper. "Must be the pressure."
Winslow intervenes before things escalate. "Alright, enough. Bus leaves at five tomorrow. Marshall, go home and sleep. That's an order."
As the guys file out, several of them pat me on the shoulder or tap my mask—hockey's equivalent of "good luck" and "we're proud of you." Beneath all the shit-talking, there's genuine support. We all know how rare these opportunities are, how quickly windows can close.
"You got this, Marshmallow," Vander says, using the nickname I despise as he heads for the door.
"Call me that again and I'll hide shrimp in your gear bag," I threaten.
"Again?" he asks innocently. "That was King, not me."
"It was both of you, and I had to play three periods smelling like a seafood restaurant dumpster."
Vander grins. "Be grateful. Prepared you for the psychological warfare of the NHL."
As irritating as he is, Vander's actually right about one thing—I need rest. I finish changing, pack up my gear, and head home, setting my alarm for a glorious 8 AM instead of my usual 5:30.
Tomorrow night, Springfield. Saturday, Antarctica Beasts. Monday, final preparations.
Tuesday, destiny.
We beat Springfield 4-2, with me stopping 31 of 33 shots. Not perfect, but solid. Saturday's game against Antarctica Beasts is tighter—a 3-2 win where I face 36 shots, including a breakaway save in the final minute that has my teammates mobbing me after the final horn.
By the time Monday rolls around, I've dialed back my extra training to a more reasonable level, partly because Winslow threatened bodily harm if I showed up with dark circles under my eyes again, and partly because even I can recognize the wisdom of being rested for the biggest opportunity of my career.
Monday night, I find myself staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, sleep proving elusive despite my physical exhaustion. My mind races with scenarios for tomorrow—making spectacular saves, impressing the coaching staff, gettingthe call that changes everything. But also: letting in easy goals, tripping over the blue line, somehow forgetting how to skate altogether.
I reach for my journal on the nightstand and write by the dim light of my phone:
I am ready. I have put in the work. I deserve this chance.
It sounds like the kind of generic motivational crap people post on LinkedIn, but it helps quiet the noise in my head. I've been chasing this dream since I was five years old, standing in front of my parents' dryer in mini goalie pads while my dad tossed socks for me to save. Twenty-two years of early mornings, late nights, countless bruises, and more ice baths than I can count.
I deserve this chance. I'm ready.
Tuesday morning arrives with perfect clarity. I wake before my alarm, feeling oddly calm. The nerves will come later, I know, but for now there's a strange serenity that comes with facing a moment you've prepared for your entire life.
Warrior Ice Arena looks different today—not just because it's bustling with activity as the Saints prepare for their morning skate, but because I'm seeing it through new eyes. Not as an outsider or a visitor, but as someone who belongs here.
I check in with the security desk, where they're expecting me. A staff member leads me to the visitors' locker room—not the main Saints room, which makes sense. I'm not on the team. Yet.
"Jake Marshall?"
I turn to see Tom Kelly, the Saints' goaltending coach, approaching with his hand extended.
