Page 35 of Puck Shots (Love The Game #6)

Cosmo

T his morning was a blur of texts and phone calls from family and friends and teammates wishing me luck for today.

I think I ate something. I remember Mom shoving something soft and round into my hands, and me maybe chewing, but that’s it.

In between then and now, I’ve showered and changed into the most well-fitted suit I’ve ever owned.

“Gotta look good for your big moment,” Mom had said when she took me to the tailors to have it made.

It has to have cost a small fortune. Fuck, when I think of all the money they’ve spent on supporting my dream, supporting this, me, this is what it has all been leading up to. The day my life could change.

“You got this,” Eli says, squeezing my hand as we follow my parents into TD Garden, where they’re hosting this year’s NHL draft. Boston hasn’t hosted a draft in over twenty years, so it’s packed. Not that the draft is ever not packed. I’ve only ever watched it on television.

“Good to see you again,” Greg Love says, shaking my parents’ hands. “Are you ready?” Greg asks me next, and my mouth goes impossibly dry.

“No,” I reply, and he chuckles.

“You’ll be fine, promise. Come on, your seats are this way,” he says, leading us past a few rows of seats before stopping and pointing down the line.

Paper reserved signs rest over the seat backs with my name on them and just seeing it there, printed alongside the NHL logo sends my system into overdrive.

Holy fucking shit, this is really happening.

Mom sits first followed by Dad, me, then Eli, Rachel, Tony, and Calvin. I wish Brent could be here for this, too. Of all my siblings, he’s been the one to have my back always, but I know he’ll be watching from home in the UK.

“Can I get you a water or anything?” Greg asks, but I shake my head.

If I drink anything, I’ll have to pee, and if I’m in the bathroom when they call my name…

if they call my name, then I’ll go down in history as the guy who missed his moment because of his bladder. No telling what nickname I’d get then.

“Well, I’ll check in on you later. Have fun, kid. You earned every minute of this.”

“Thanks,” I say, and Eli gives my hand another small squeeze.

He leans in to whisper in my ear. “How big are you freaking out right now?”

“I’m at about one thousand,” I say, and he slides my sleeve up a little and unbuttons the cuff of my shirt.

“Look,” he says, and I turn my attention to where his soft fingertip traces the outline of the now permanently tattooed lightning bolt on my inner wrist. Then he turns his wrist up to show me the matching one on his.

The permanent reminder to us both that we’ll always have a piece of each other.

I skim my fingers over his tattoo, up his palm, and then clasp his hand in mine.

“What if no team picks me? Boston has the fifth pick and Chicago has seventh in the first round. They both made a point to tell me that, so it could be either of them, right? Or did I ask what pick they got at one of the lunches or dinners? Then it might be neither of them.” I say, my voice trembling a little.

“Greg said you’re expected to be a first-round pick, right?” he asks, and I nod, the gravity of that fully hasn’t sunk in. Like most of the legends I’ve been looking up to my whole life weren’t first round picks, how the fuck am I expected to be one?

Eli leans in closer, his breath sending a shiver up the side of my neck when he speaks.

“Greg wouldn’t be telling you that if he wasn’t really positive it would happen, would he?”

“I guess, but what if I’m not picked, like, at all?”

Eli turns my face towards him, and when I settle my gaze on his bright smiling eyes, my pulse starts to steady.

“The chances of that are almost zero,” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek.

“You’re a science guy, you know that’s not true,” I say, and he shrugs.

“Actually, based on the media coverage, the prediction lists, you know, all those things you’ve been trying to avoid so you don’t spiral and freak out.”

I nod.

“Well, when you take those and the fact you’ve had multiple meetings with at least three different teams in just the past month, I’m confident in my statistic.”

“But what if—”

“Stop. Have you even known a player to be here and not be drafted?”

Has that ever happened? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it actually happening, but I could be the first. That thought sends my nerves back into overdrive.

“The answer is no, and it’s the answer to the other question rolling around in your head, too,” Eli says, and I meet his gaze. His soft, kind eyes smiling back at me. “You won’t be the first it happens to. This is your day. Enjoy it. You’ve worked so hard to get here, this is it. You’ve done it.”

And with that, the commissioner steps out onto the stage and the crowd goes wild.

Eli settles back into his chair, his hand still clasped with mine as we watch it all begin.

I try to focus on one thing at a time as a way to control that nervous energy bubbling inside.

The camera occasionally pans to me and the family, and I smile, hoping I don’t look as terrified as I feel.

But every now and then I catch a shot on one of the big screens showing a replay of one of my games, and I start to realize, this is actually awesome. This whole thing is amazing.

The atmosphere in TD Graden is electric, the media and public attention driving up the excitement levels, and when I go to swallow and find my mouth thick, I’m second guessing declining the drink offer.

Almost like he’s read my mind, Eli reaches down and pulls a small water bottle from a bag I didn’t even see him carry in.

“Here, take small sips,” he says, handing it over, and I smile down at where the label has been torn from the bottle.

The commissioner calls out the first pick.

It isn’t me. It was unlikely it was going to be me.

Greg would have said if he thought I could be top five, wouldn’t he?

I cheer and clap as each name gets called, they walk on stage, put on their team jersey and hat, and wave for the cameras.

It’s all so surreal to even be in the crowd for this.

I watch every year, cheering when my favorites get picked but now it’s my turn to be the one people cheer for.

“With the fifth selection for this year’s NHL draft, The Boston Basilisk, are proud to select, from Boston University…”

Could this be it? Eli squeezes my hand, or I’m squeezing his.

I’m not sure which. I wait, bated breath as the commissioner pauses, smiling into the card in his hands, reveling in the fact that he knows what I am desperate to hear.

Is it me? Is it Luka? He’s sitting somewhere in this sea of people waiting, probably as nervous as I am. They should have sat us together.

The commissioner looks up from the card. “Cosmo Parks.”

Wait, did I hear that right?

Eli jostles my arm.

“It’s you, Cos, you got picked,” he says, and I stand, my heart beating so loud it’s thumping in my ears as Mom steps around Dad to hug me.

I got picked fifth. I got picked fifth in the first round of the NHL draft by Boston.

I’m staying in Boston. Eli is in Boston.

Fuck yes. Oh, my God. How is this not a dream?

“Congratulations, son,” Mom says into my ear, and when she lets go, I catch a tear rolling down her cheek. I’m going to still be close enough to visit home, too. Fuck. The Boston Basilisk want me.

Dad hugs me next, patting my back. “You did it, Cosmo. You made it,” he says.

“I made it,” I reply, but my voice comes out all squeaky so I turn, and Eli is there, wide smile, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold in his excitement so that he doesn’t launch himself at me live on camera for the world to see.

I can tell just by looking at him he’s about ready to burst. I haven’t hidden our relationship from anyone. Fuck, I even talked him up at my very first meeting with the exact team that decided to pick me.

So, I wrap my arms around him and spin him in place, not caring if he kicks my brother on the way round or who sees. Then I kiss him quickly before letting him go, a blush on his cheeks I will never tire of seeing.

“Go have your moment,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” I say, and he laughs.

“You’re not. You made it.”

My brothers and Rachel hug me on my way past them, and then I’m led by an usher up through the aisle towards the stage.

Cameras flash, and people I don’t know call my name, drawing my attention for a moment here and there, but then I spot Luka standing a few rows down and jog to meet him at the side.

“You’ll be next, brother,” I say, and he grabs my hand and gives me our signature bro hug.

“You bet I will. Now get the hell up there already.”

I’m ushered along, up the stairs to where the team rep of the Boston Basilisk is waiting, jersey in hand to greet me.

“Welcome to the team,” he says, shaking my hand and passing me the black, white, and purple jersey.

I pull it on, loving the way the thick fabric hugs my body.

I look down at the intimidating logo of a basilisk biting down on a hockey puck on my chest, the sound of the crowd an incoherent hum in the background.

“Congrats, son,” the commissioner says, drawing my attention and handing me the cap with the same colors and logo on the front. I tilt my head back, the giant screen behind me lit up with an enormous jersey with my name and number on it.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, pulling the cap on and turning to wave to the crowd.

I stand there, taking in every second of this moment.

I told everyone I’d make it here, that this is where I belonged and that this was my future.

But until right now, this moment, standing here with it actually a reality in my life, I’m not sure I honestly believed it would happen.

I catch Eli’s gaze in the crowd, his smile like a beacon in the night.

He knew. He never doubted I’d get here. He never doubted me, but I also know that if I didn’t make it, he’d still be there, in my corner, loving me for exactly who I am, with or without hockey.

But I did get here.

Holy fuck. I’m actually drafted to the NHL.