Page 22 of Play Along With Me
"Is it that obvious?" I ask.
He grins. "You've got that 'don't puke, don't puke' look I had during my first call-up."
"That obvious," I sigh.
"Relax," he says. "You're here because you belong here. Even if you don't get in tonight, soak it all in. First one's special."
I nod, grateful for the encouragement but still fighting the surreal feeling of it all.
Coach Tremblay's pre-game speech is brief and to the point—keys to beating New York, reminders about their top scorers' tendencies, emphasis on special teams. He doesn't single me out or make a big deal about the new face in the room, which I appreciate. I'm just another player, here to do a job.
The walk from the locker room to the bench is a sensory overload—the roar of the TD Garden crowd, the brightness of the lights, the pristine ice surface. I follow Ambroz out, taking my place on the bench as backup while he leads the team for warm-ups.
Even though I'm not starting, Coach Kelly has me participate in the pre-game skate—partly to get comfortable on the Garden ice, partly because it's standard procedure for both goalies to warm up. I try not to think about the 18,000 fans watching as I go through my routine, focusing instead on the feel of the puck hitting my pads, my glove, my blocker.
Back on the bench for the national anthem, I scan the crowd, taking in the sea of black and gold. The box seats come into view, and I spot Kevin Wooledge watching intently. He givesme a nod when our eyes meet. Beside him are Ryan and Mike, my potential new agents, both giving me encouraging thumbs up.
It's good to have options, to be wanted. But right now, all I want is to be right here, on this bench, in this building, with this team.
The game starts at a frantic pace. New York comes out flying, testing Ambroz early with several quality chances. He stands tall, turning away everything they throw at him. I watch carefully from my perch at the end of the bench, studying the Tanks' tendencies in case I'm called upon.
Which I won't be, barring something catastrophic. But still. Be ready.
The first period ends scoreless. The second heats up with matching penalties leading to some 4-on-4 play, where the Saints capitalize with a beautiful tic-tac-toe passing play finished by Horak. New York answers five minutes later on a power play, and we head to the third period tied 1-1.
The final frame is tense, both teams generating chances but neither able to break through. Ambroz makes a spectacular glove save with two minutes remaining that has the Garden crowd chanting his name. We head to overtime, where Culkin ends it with a wrist shot through traffic at 2:14 of the extra period.
The bench erupts, guys spilling onto the ice to celebrate. I join the procession, exchanging fist bumps and helmet taps with teammates. I didn't play a single second, but the joy is infectious, the camaraderie immediate.
Back in the locker room, the mood is upbeat as guys change and field questions from the media. No one approaches me, which makes sense—the backup goalie who didn't play isn'texactly a compelling story. But Coach Kelly finds me as I'm packing up my gear.
"Good work today, Marshall. Both in practice and being prepared tonight."
"Thank you, sir," I reply. "It was an incredible experience."
He nods. "You'll be heading back to Providence tomorrow, but we liked what we saw. Keep doing what you're doing down there. You never know when the call might come."
It's not a promise, but it's not nothing either. I've shown I can hang at this level, at least in practice. The rest is up to me—and a bit of luck with timing and injuries, the unfortunate reality of how most goalies get their first real chance.
As the locker room clears out, Ryan and Mike appear in the doorway, waiting for me. We've scheduled a meeting to finalize my representation with them after the game. They're both grinning like they just won the lottery.
"Jake! Fantastic day, man," Ryan enthuses, shaking my hand vigorously. "Kelly couldn't stop talking about you during the game."
"We were sitting with Wooledge," Mike adds. "He's impressed too, but don't worry—we've got you covered with Boston. This is where you belong."
I appreciate their confidence, but I know this business well enough to take everything with a grain of salt. One good practice doesn't guarantee anything. Still, it's a start. A foot in the door.
"Let's grab some food and talk details," Ryan suggests. "There's a great steakhouse around the corner."
As we're walking toward the players' exit, I spot a familiar figure waiting in the hallway, looking slightly uncomfortable and out of place amongst the friends and family waiting for players.
Audrey?
What the hell is she doing here?
She hasn't seen me yet, her attention on her phone. She's wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater—not Saints colors, but not Tanks blue either. Neutral territory.
Before I can process why Collin’s neighbor is standing in the TD Garden players' area, Kevin Wooledge appears beside her, saying something that makes her laugh.
