Page 32 of Play Along With Me
By 8:30, my car is packed with my gear and enough clothes to get me through the next week or so. The rest can wait. I take one last look at the apartment that's been my home for the past three years—the mismatched furniture, the hockey memorabilia, the fridge with its peeling Saints logo magnet that now seems prophetic.
Then I hit the road, heading north to Boston, to the NHL, to the future I've always believed was waiting for me.
The drive passes in a blur of phone calls and mental preparation. My parents, overjoyed and already making plans to fly out for my first start. My old goalie coach from juniors, who's been in my corner since I was sixteen. My agent, Dave, who's disappointed to lose me as a client but genuinely happy about the call-up.
When I arrive at Warrior Ice Arena, it's like entering a different world than yesterday. Then, I was a visitor, a prospect getting a look. Today, I'm expected. The security guard knows my name, directs me to the players' parking area—not the visitor lot.
Inside, I'm greeted by Ryan and Mike, both wearing suits and matching grins.
"There he is," Mike says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Boston's new backup."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I caution, though I can't help returning their smiles. "Still have to pass the physical, sign the contract, all that."
"Details," Ryan waves this away. "Come on, they're waiting for you."
The next few hours are a whirlwind of medical examinations, paperwork, meetings with coaches and management. I sign a two-way contract that pays me at the NHL level—more money than I've ever made in my life, though modest by NHL standards. It's real now, official.
By mid-afternoon, I've been assigned a locker in the Saints' dressing room—not a temporary stall like yesterday, but a permanent space with "MARSHALL #35" on a propernameplate. I run my fingers over it, still not quite believing it's mine.
"Fits you," a voice says behind me. I turn to see Ambroz, the starting goalie, watching me with a slight smile.
"Thanks," I say, not sure what else to add.
"Warszawski is good guy, tough break for him," Ambroz continues in his Finnish accent. "But you looked solid yesterday. Quick legs."
Coming from one of the best goalies in the league, this is high praise indeed.
"I appreciate that," I tell him. "Looking forward to working with you."
He nods. "We start today. Goalie session with Kelly in thirty minutes, then team practice. You have your gear ready?"
"Always," I assure him.
As he walks away, I take a deep breath, centering myself. This is really happening. I'm here. I've made it.
The next challenge: staying here.
The goalie session with Kelly is intense—far more detailed and technical than anything I experienced in the AHL. We break down specific movement patterns, analyze my positioning on different types of shots, discuss the tendencies of upcoming opponents. It's exactly the kind of high-level coaching I've been craving.
Team practice follows, my first as an official member of the Saints. Coach Tremblay introduces me briefly, welcomes me to the team, then we get straight to work. There's no fanfare, no special attention—I'm expected to perform at this level now, not just aspire to it.
After practice, I'm given a packet of information about housing options—the team has arrangements with several apartment buildings in Boston for short-term leases for players called up mid-season. There's also information about Boston neighborhoods, restaurants, transportation.
"The team will put you up in a hotel for the first week while you get settled," the housing coordinator explains. "Take your time finding the right place."
By the time I leave the facility that evening, I'm exhausted but buzzing with energy. I check into the hotel the team has arranged—a luxury property in Back Bay that's nicer than anywhere I've ever stayed—and immediately collapse onto the king-sized bed.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ryan:Dinner tomorrow night to celebrate. Bring anyone you want.
I scroll through my contacts, wondering who I might invite to this milestone celebration. My parents won't arrive until next week. My Providence teammates are preparing for their weekend games. Most of my close friends from home are scattered across the country.
For a brief moment, Audrey's face flashes in my mind—her surprised laugh, her sharp observations—but I push the thought away. This is about hockey, about my career. I don't have her number, so not an option.
I text back,Thanks again for everything.
I set my phone aside and stare up at the ceiling, letting the reality of the day wash over me. Tomorrow, I'll officially be introduced to the media as the Saints' new backup goalie. Next week, I might get my first NHL start. Everything I've worked for is unfolding exactly as I'd hoped.
I am in the NHL. Not visiting, not getting a look.
