Chapter 9
~Deacon~
Thanks to years of conditioning, my body reacts to the sound of my alarm like an Olympic sprinter responding to the starting gun. Before my brain is fully aware of what’s happening, I reach over and silence the pinging noise.
When my mind catches up, its first thought is: I hope that didn’t wake Daley.
Warm, deliciously dirty memories from last night come flooding back in all at once, and I turn back to the other side of the bed, already coming up with excuses to justify rescheduling my six am workout session to have a little more time in bed with her before she needs to leave.
An empty space greets me, and I prop myself up on my elbows to scan the room in the dim light. “Daley?”
Silence, thick and stale, is all that answers me. The door to the living area, which I left open last night, has been pulled closed.
Still naked, I throw the covers back and walk out into the suite’s main room. It’s empty too, and although my shirt is still on the floor where I left it last night, Daley’s clothes are gone. As I scan the room for other clues, something on the desk catches my eye.
It’s a flower, made out of folded blue paper. What do they call that? Origami? Picking it up, I turn the delicate creation over in my hand, both charmed by it and a little mystified. That confusion ends when I see the note sitting beneath it, written on the same blue paper bearing the hotel’s name.
Deacon,
Thank you for a wonderful night. I woke up early and didn’t want to bother you, so I let myself out. Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Vegas.
Daley
It only takes me a few seconds to scan the short sentences, and I flip the page over in case she left her number or any other indication that she might want to leave the door open to… well, anything. There’s nothing there, though; just the succinct note and the little flower.
All in all, I know very little more about the woman now than I did when I spotted her in the bar last night, and yet, staring down at the pretty blue piece of folded art, I’m struck by the notion that I missed out on something by not at least getting her full name.
Since my own draft, ten years ago, the league has ramped up the spectacle to a whole new level.
Fans pack the arena seats, along with the draft prospects and their families, and the arena floor has a table set up for each of the league’s teams. The team logo sits proudly in the centre of the table while management and the scouting team sit around it, the papers and computers spread out in front of them full of lists and back-up plans for every possible scenario.
It’s the culmination of months of work for the scouts.
As a mere player, even the team captain, I’m not important enough to get a spot at that table.
Instead, I find myself up in the team’s suite along with our coach, Brice, a few lower management members, and a lot of family members.
We’ve got an open line of communication with the team at the table, but we’re firmly out of the action.
TVs along the walls display the same feed that people watching at home will see.
Servers in crisp white shirts and black skirts or slacks move in and out of the room, offering appetizers and drinks. When I ask for chicken and a salad instead, they hurry off to place the order and I settle myself into one of the seats at the front of the suite, overlooking the crowd.
It doesn’t take Brice long to sink into the seat next to me.
“How’re you feeling about all this?” he asks, gesturing to the packed arena spread out beneath us.
“A lot less nervous than the last time I was at one of these.”
“I bet.”
His eyes twinkle with good humour and understanding.
Brice is my father’s age and has been a kind of surrogate father to me since I joined the team six years ago.
My first four years of playing were with a big-city team on the eastern seaboard.
I played well there but never found my niche.
Getting traded to the expansion team in Sioux Falls, South Dakota felt like a downgrade at the time but turned out to be the best thing that could have happened for my career.
Brice was building a team from the ground up and he gave me the chance to put myself right at the centre of things.
Now here we are, playoff contenders for the last three seasons.
That means our draft pick tonight will be towards the end of the round, after the teams with worse records have a chance to pick first, so we might not get our top pick. I’m trying to prepare myself for that possibility.
Whoever we get, I hope I can convince them that playing for Sioux Falls might be the best thing to happen to them too.
Most teams will be going for forwards tonight. One or two are in need of a strong goalie. Our team? We need defence. It’s the weakest part of our game, especially since we traded away our best defencemen, at my request. It was me or him, and thankfully, the team chose to keep me.
The thought of Brady makes my blood boil, as always, but I throw a lid on my emotions to keep it to a simmer, focusing back on the night ahead.
We have our eye on two or three young prospects who could be starting-line material for next season. Hopefully, at least one of them will still be available by the time the picks get to us.
“Saw pictures of you leaving the hotel last night,” Brice adds, a little too casually. “Fucking paparazzi. Hope you managed to have a good night.”
My lips fight against the smile that wants to break loose at the thought of how good it ended up being. “I got my mind off things for a while.”
“Good.” He claps his hand on my shoulder in support. “You seem more relaxed. Looks like we’re about to start.”
The production values are top-notch as the draft begins.
Every detail is made-for-TV, with short videos profiling each team before their managers are called up to make their pick.
First pick belongs to Montreal, and they snap up a right-wing prodigy from Manitoba, to no one’s surprise.
The hometown team of Las Vegas takes the top-ranked goalie.
We get to the eighth pick before our first-choice defenceman is taken. I bite back my groan of frustration as the young man heads up on stage and dons the jersey of his new team, beaming with pride. Good for him, I guess, but we’ll have to hope we get our second choice instead.
Nine teams later, our second choice goes too. This time, I can’t hold back from letting out a muttered curse. “Damn it.”
“Still plenty of good choices,” Brice assures me, but we both know we’re down to just one from our top tier picks. There are others who are good, but maybe not good enough to play at NHL level right away.
I catch myself holding my breath every time another team takes the stage to make their pick. Another defenceman is chosen, but not the one we want, and I pump my fists in relief.
At last, there’s only one team left before us.
“San Jose takes… Jason Zimmer.”
“Thank fuck,” I exhale as the tall centre heads up to the stage. “We got him.”
There’s no need for a last-minute discussion with the team down on the floor since there’s only one player left on our dream list. As our turn finally comes around, the screens in the arena play the short video about the Sioux Falls Wolves.
My own voice plays through the loudspeaker, talking about our plans for the upcoming season over some footage of the team in action.
At last, our general manager takes the stage and calls out our pick.
“Sioux Falls takes River Adams.”