Page 31 of Play Along With Me
I wonder if I'll see her again. She's friends with Kevin, apparently, though that connection seems as random as our initial door-pounding encounter.
Maybe I should've asked for her number. But that feels complicated given the professional context of the dinner, the fact that Kevin clearly values her opinion about his potential investments. Plus, timing-wise, my life is about to get even more hectic and uncertain. The last thing I need is a distraction.
Still, as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling while exhaustion pulls at my limbs, I can't help but smile remembering her final "knock knock" joke. There was something almost childlike in her delivery, a genuine playfulness that cut through all the serious career talk of the evening.
Tomorrow it's back to the routine—practice, workouts, video review, mentally preparing for our weekend games. Back to the singular focus that's defined my existence for as long as I can remember.
But tonight, just for a moment before sleep claims me, I allow myself to wonder about the woman with the imaginary diabetic cat and the real literary-named one, the woman who somehow made an NHL backup goalie dinner with sports agents feel like the most entertaining event of the season.
Audrey with the sharp eyes and sharper wit. Audrey who sees people's characters clearly. Audrey who's trying to write a novel about seeing people's regrets.
I wonder what regrets she would see floating above my head?
As I drift off to sleep, my last coherent thought is that I hope our paths cross again, preferably with no doors between us.
My phone rings at 7:15 AM, yanking me from a deep sleep. I fumble for it in the darkness, checking the display with bleary eyes.
Ryan.
"Hello?" My voice is rough with sleep.
"Jake, sorry for the early call," Ryan says, sounding far too alert for this hour. "But I've got news that couldn't wait."
I sit up, suddenly wide awake. "What is it?"
"Warszawski's injury is worse than they thought. MRI showed a full groin tear. He's having surgery today, out for at least three months."
My heart rate kicks up. Tony Warszawski is the Saints' backup goalie, the guy whose injury opened the door for my practice opportunity yesterday.
"That's tough for him," I say carefully, not wanting to sound like I'm celebrating someone else's misfortune.
"It is," Ryan agrees. "But it opens a door for you. Boston's calling you up, Jake. Not just for a game or two—they need a solid backup for Ambroz for the foreseeable future. Evander's not cutting it, and you impressed everyone yesterday."
The words hang in the air for a moment as I process them. This is it. The call. The one I've been waiting for, visualizing, writing affirmations about for years.
"When do they want me?" I ask, already mentally packing my bags.
"Today. Can you be at Warrior Ice Arena by noon? You'll need to go through medical clearance, sign some paperwork, meet with Coach Tremblay."
"I'll be there," I promise, mind racing through logistics. "What about Burnham? Kevin said—"
"Already handled it," Ryan assures me. "Kevin agrees this is the right move. Boston's a better fit for you stylistically, and they're offering a better contract. Two-way deal but with asignificant NHL salary component. We can go over the details when you get to Boston."
After a few more minutes of conversation about what to expect, we hang up. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall as the reality sinks in.
I'm being called up to the NHL. Not for a practice, not as an emergency backup—as the legitimate number two goalie for the Boston Saints. For at least three months, probably longer if things go well.
My hands are shaking slightly as I pull out my journal and write at the top of a fresh page:
I AM IN THE NHL.
Not an affirmation anymore. A fact.
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to feel the full weight of this moment, the culmination of twenty-two years of sacrifice and work and hope. Then I get moving. There's no time to waste.
Vander is still asleep when I start packing my things. I write him a note explaining the situation, promising to call later with details about my housing situation and what to do with the rest of my stuff. Then I call Winslow, our captain, to let him know I won't be at practice.
"About damn time," is his response when I tell him the news. "You've earned this, Marshall. Go show them what we already know."
