Page 9 of Play Along With Me
"I'd need to talk to my current agent," I say. "And I'd want to know your terms."
"Of course," Mike nods. "We can send over a standard contract for you to review. But Jake—" he leans in, lowering his voice like we're conspirators, "this is time-sensitive. That practice opportunity is next Tuesday. If we're going to make this happen, we need to move quickly."
The pressure tactic is obvious, but that doesn't mean it's wrong. Hockey careers can change on a dime. One injury, one bad stretch, one missed opportunity—and suddenly you're thirty-two, playing in Europe, and telling stories about how you almost made it.
"Send me the contract," I say. "I'll review it tonight."
Ryan smiles. "Smart move. We really think you've got what it takes, Jake. The Saints just need to see it for themselves."
The rest of the evening is spent talking hockey—my style, my strengths, areas where I can improve. These guys know their stuff, which is reassuring. They ask about my lateral movement, my post integration, my puck-handling abilities—specific, technical questions that tell me they've actually watched me play, or at least talked to someone who has.
By the time I leave Collin's apartment, it's nearly midnight. Despite my initial skepticism—and Collin's annoying personality—the meeting felt productive. Maybe this is finally it—the break I've been waiting for.
As I walk down the hallway towards the elevator, I glance at 4A. All quiet now.
None of my business, obviously.
I've got more important things to focus on.
The next morning, I'm on the ice at 5:30 AM, an hour before official practice. It's just me, the rink manager who lets me in early for an extra fifty bucks a week, and the unforgiving goal posts that ping loudly in the empty arena when I'm not quick enough.
The conversation with Ryan and Mike loops in my head as I work through my drill progression. T-pushes, butterfly slides, recovery drills. My pads are heavy with sweat, my breath making small clouds in the cold air.
They said the Saints need to get younger in net. That Evander is struggling. That there's an opportunity.
I've heard similar things before—whispers of opportunities, promises of looks, talk of potential call-ups. In three years with Providence, I've had exactly two NHL appearances—both in preseason games. Meaningless exhibitions where I played half a game before being sent back down.
But this feels different. A practice next Tuesday. A chance to show what I can do directly to the goalie coach, not filtered through reports from the minor league staff.
I push harder, my edges cutting deep into the ice as I move post-to-post. Every movement has to be precise. NHL shooters don't give you time to recover from poor positioning.
After team practice, a brutal two-hour session where Coach Klein made us run his infamous "Scandinavian death circuit" after a sluggish start, I drag my aching body back tomy apartment. My roommate Vander is sprawled on the couch, playing NHL 24 on our ancient PlayStation.
"Rough practice?" he asks without looking away from the screen.
"Klein was on a rampage," I confirm, dropping my gear bag by the door. "Someone scratched his BMW in the parking lot."
"That would do it," Vander nods. "Hey, you're in the starting lineup tonight, by the way. Coach posted it after you left."
I'm not surprised—I've started four of the last five games—but it's still good to hear. Every start is another chance to put up numbers, to strengthen my case for a call-up.
After a protein shake and a quick shower, I settle into my pre-game routine. Most hockey players are superstitious, but goalies take it to another level. We're a special breed of crazy. My routine is relatively tame compared to some—I don't talk to my goal posts or refuse to cut my hair during winning streaks—but I do have one ritual that would probably get me mocked mercilessly if the guys knew about it.
I pull out my journal—a simple black notebook—and open it to today's page. At the top, in capital letters, I write:
I AM IN THE NHL.
I AM THE BEST GOALIE IN THE NHL.
I AM READY.
I started this about a year ago after reading some book about manifestation that Vander's hippie girlfriend left behind when they broke up. I was desperate and figure it couldn't hurt. The whole "visualize what you want, and the universe will provide" thing seemed like bullshit, but then again, so doesstanding in front of frozen rubber discs traveling at 90+ miles per hour for a living.
The hard truth is that I'm sick of not getting what I want. I'm sick of being the best goalie in Providence and watching others get opportunities. I'm sick of living with a roommate at twenty-seven, of counting pennies at the grocery store, of telling my parents "maybe next year" when they ask if they'll get to see me play in Boston.
I write the same three lines in my journal before every game, before every practice. Not because I believe some cosmic force will magically make it happen, but because it forces me to confront what I want, to acknowledge that I'm not there yet, and to remind myself why I push so damn hard every day.
Below the affirmations, I jot down some notes about what I need to focus on tonight against Springfield:
