Page 46 of Play Along With Me
The uncertainty of hockey careers is something you learn to live with. Even now, with my NHL contract signed, there's no guarantee. Warszawski could come back from injury sooner than expected. Management could make a trade. I could play poorly and find myself back in Providence.
But for now, I'm here. And that's enough.
Practice is intense—game day morning skate, focused on special teams and specific tactical adjustments for tonight's opponent. As backup, I split time with Ambroz during drills, getting my reps in while also observing how he handles certain situations. Every minute on NHL ice is a learning opportunity.
Afterward, I head to my new apartment to unpack the few boxes I brought from Providence. Most of my stuff is still there—Vander promised to pack it up this weekend and drive it up—but I have the essentials: clothes, my lucky pre-game tie, the photo of my parents at my college graduation, and the puck from my first professional shutout in the AHL.
The apartment is sparse but functional. One bedroom, basic furniture provided by the building, walking distance to the rink. It's temporary, like everything in hockey. But it's mine, at least for now.
My phone buzzes with texts from the Providence group chat:
Allen: Miss you already Marshmallow. The new guy doesn't let me score on him in practice so he's way worse than you
Winslow: Ignore him. New guy is actually good. Huge upgrade.
Vander: Saw you on TV sitting on the bench looking scared. Made me proud.
King: When you coming back to get your shit? Vander's using your room to "entertain" and it's disgusting
I smile despite myself. Three years with those guys created bonds that won't break just because I've moved up.That's the dichotomy of hockey—fierce competition for limited roster spots, but also genuine brotherhood.
Me: I was focused, not scared. And Vander better burn those sheets before bringing them here.
Vander: No promises. See you Saturday with your stuff. Call your mom. She asked me if I'm coming to the Ruggert game with them.
My parents. Of course they're coming. They've been calculating flight options since the moment I called with the news about my call-up. It's not that I don't want to see them—I do. It's just that my mom's particular brand of support can be... overwhelming.
I call my mom on FaceTime.
"Hi Mom," I say, propping the phone against a box so she can see me unpacking.
"There's my NHL star!" she practically squeals. "How's Boston treating you? Are they feeding you enough? Your father says you looked thin on TV."
"I'm the same weight I've been for five years, Mom. And I'm a backup, not a star."
"Nonsense," she dismisses. "Tyler Saunders himself said you had 'great potential' in that interview. I posted it on Facebook."
Of course she did. My mother's Facebook page has become a shrine to my hockey career, documenting every minor achievement with the enthusiasm usually reserved for Nobel Prize winners.
"Mom, please don't post everything about me online," I plead for probably the hundredth time. "It's... a lot."
"I'm just proud of my son," she says, slightly hurt. "Is that so wrong?"
"No, it's not wrong, it's just—"
"Oh! Did you see what I tagged you in this morning? The Boston Hockey Moms group added me as an honorary member! They're all so excited to meet us tomorrow. I told them we'd take pictures with them after the game."
I close my eyes briefly. "Mom, I might not even play tomorrow. I'm the backup."
"But you'll be there," she counters. "On an NHL bench! Do you know how many mothers would give anything to see their sons where you are?"
This is the impossible conversation we've been having since I was drafted. My mom's pride runs so deep that it turns every step of my career into a ticker-tape parade, while I'm still focused on the mountain ahead. To her, making it to the NHL bench is the pinnacle. To me, it's just another step toward what I really want—to be a starting goaltender, to actually play significant minutes, to prove I belong.
"We got our flights changed," she continues, oblivious to my internal conflict. "Arriving tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Your father found a hotel right by the arena. We'll see you after the game? Unless you want us to meet you at the players' entrance? I made signs!"
The thought of my parents standing outside the arena with homemade signs like I'm still playing peewee hockey makes me want to crawl into my locker and never come out.
"Maybe just meet me at that Italian place we talked about," I suggest. "After the game. It might be late."
