Page 42 of Play Along With Me
"So," I say after a moment. "Boston Saints backup goalie. That's your official title now?"
"That's right," he nods, a hint of pride in his voice. "After three years in Providence, I finally got the call."
"Providence... is that where you were before?"
"Yeah, the Providence Saints—Boston's minor league affiliate. I've been there since I was drafted."
"And being drafted is... good?" I ask, realizing just how little I know about professional sports.
Jake smiles, but not condescendingly. "Being drafted means a team selects you out of junior hockey or college to join their organization. I was drafted by Boston five years ago, played four years of college hockey at Boston University before that."
"So you've been in Boston a while."
"On and off," he nods. "I grew up in Minnesota, but Boston's been home base for most of my adult life. Though I've been living in Providence the last three years while playing for their AHL team."
"And now you're back," I observe. "Moving up in the world."
"That's the hope," he agrees. "Just got an apartment in the city, actually. Signed the lease yesterday."
"Wow, things move fast in the hockey world."
"They can," he nods. "When you get the call, you don't waste time. I've been waiting for this opportunity for years."
There's something compelling about his focus, his clear dedication to his path. I'm used to men who drift, who have vague aspirations and "projects" they never complete—not unlike my own relationship with my novel, a comparison I find uncomfortably revealing.
"So what happens next?" I ask. "Now that you've achieved the big NHL dream?"
"Now I prove I belong there," he says simply. "Work hard, stop pucks, help the team win. And hopefully earn a permanent spot, not just filling in while Warszawski is injured."
"Warszawski is...?"
"The regular backup who got hurt. That's how I got my chance."
"Ah, so you're basically hoping this Warszawski guy never recovers?" I tease.
"Not exactly," Jake laughs. "But I am hoping to prove myself valuable enough that they find a spot for me even after he comes back."
"Ruthless," I nod approvingly. "I like it."
"It's just the reality of professional sports," he shrugs. "Limited roster spots, lots of talented guys trying to fill them. You have to take your opportunities when they come."
"Hmm," I say, thinking of my own stalled writing career. "Waiting for the right moment, the right chance. But also having to make something happen yourself."
"Exactly," he says, looking surprised and pleased that I understand. "It's a balance between patience and action."
"So Boston was always the goal? No other teams you'd rather play for?"
"Boston's a great organization, but honestly, I'd have taken any NHL spot. When you've been in the minors as long as I have, you just want your shot. Kevin was talking to me about Burnham—the Polar Bears' organization—as another possibility."
"Ah, so that's why he brought me to the game," I realize. "For my 'final opinion' on you, whatever that means."
"Kevin values your judgment," Jake says with a slight smile. "Says you have good instincts about people."
"That's generous considering I invented a diabetic cat to avoid having drinks with him."
"To be fair, that just shows creative problem-solving skills."
I laugh, surprised by how easy this conversation feels. There's none of the forced quality that usually characterizes first (or second, or third) encounters with men—no performative storytelling, no obvious attempts to impress, just a natural give-and-take.
