Page 21 of Play Along With Me
"Yes sir," I reply, shaking his hand firmly.
"Glad you could join us today," he says, though we both know I would have crawled here on broken glass if necessary. "Get your gear on and we'll get started in fifteen. You'll do some work with me first, then join the full team session."
"Sounds great," I say, trying to sound professionally enthusiastic rather than pathetically eager.
The next hour passes in a blur. Kelly puts me through a progression of drills—first basic movement patterns, then increasingly complex scenarios designed to test my positioning, recovery, and tracking. I can feel him evaluating every push, every save, every moment of body control.
"Good," he says occasionally, or "Try to keep your glove a bit higher there," or "Watch your depth on those lateral plays."
I absorb every word like it's gospel, making immediate adjustments. By the time we move to the full team practice, I'm drenched in sweat but feeling locked in.
Head Coach Tremblay skates over as I'm setting up in one of the nets.
"Marshall," he nods. "Kelly says you're looking sharp. Let's see what you've got against our guys."
Our guys. The Boston Saints. NHL all-stars and future Hall of Famers who are about to fire pucks at my head.
No pressure.
The first drill is a simple 2-on-0 rush, designed to work on the forwards' timing and passing. I focus on staying patient,reading the play, and not committing too early—all while trying to forget that it's Tyler Saunders and Patrick Horak bearing down on me.
Horak takes the pass and fires. I snag it with my glove, the puck thudding satisfyingly into the leather.
"Nice save," Saunders says as he skates past, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
For the next forty minutes, I face a barrage of shots from players I've watched on TV since I was a teenager. I stop most of them—not all, because nobody stops all of them, not even Vezina Trophy winners—but enough that I can see Tremblay and Kelly exchanging glances.
Near the end of practice, Ambroz, the Saints' starting goalie, skates over during a water break.
"Good session," he says in his slight Finnish accent. "You have very quick legs."
Coming from one of the best goalies in the world, this is basically the equivalent of being handed the Stanley Cup. I manage to say "Thanks" without my voice cracking, which I count as a win.
After practice, Kelly pulls me aside.
"Solid work today, Marshall. We'd like you to stick around for the game tonight. Warszawski still isn't ready, and Evander's got the flu. You'll back up Ambroz."
My heart nearly stops. Backing up an NHL game. Wearing a Boston Saints uniform. Sitting on an NHL bench.
"Yes sir," I say, trying to sound professionally grateful rather than like I might pass out from excitement.
"You won't play unless something goes very wrong," Kelly continues, "but be ready just in case. Game's at seven, be here by four-thirty."
I nod, not trusting my voice for more words.
As I'm gathering my gear, I notice Kevin Wooledge watching from the stands. He gives me a thumbs up, and I return it with a nod. Having options is good, but right now, this is where I want to be. Boston's system is a better fit for my style, and they've already trusted me enough to have me back up tonight. That's not nothing.
The Saints' game-day locker room has an energy unlike anything in the AHL. There's the same pre-game routine—guys taping sticks, adjusting equipment, some boisterous, others silent in concentration—but it's amplified, more focused. These are the best players in the world preparing to perform on the biggest stage in hockey.
And somehow, I'm here too.
They've assigned me a stall in the corner, with "MARSHALL #35" on a makeshift nameplate above it. I run my fingers over the spoked B logo on my jersey—not a practice jersey this time, but the real thing. An actual Boston Saints game jersey with my name on it.
I snap a quick picture when no one's looking. Not to post anywhere—that would be incredibly unprofessional—but just to have. Just to remember.
"First NHL game?"
I look up to see Cole Culkin, the Saints' star defenseman, adjusting his shoulder pads in the neighboring stall.
