Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“Welcome back hockey fans to All-Star Weekend. We hope you’re ready for our next event: the One-on-One challenge!”
The screams of diehard fans answer the announcer without pause, eager for the start of the upcoming contest. From one end of the Los Angeles sports arena to the other, no seat has been left empty.
Children in the front row pound against the glass, hoping to be noticed by any of the players while their parents watch on, equally excited.
Above, the bright lights in the rafters are blinding, their heat counteracting the chill of the ice beneath my skates.
Across the rink, no single team’s fanbase dominates the arena; there’s a sea of jersey colors with at least one fan representing every team, even the newer expansion franchises.
Some fans hold signs, sending messages to their favorite players while others chant for their team.
With the crowd so dense, I can imagine my mom standing among them, screaming my name.
The crowd’s roar nearly drowns out the announcer as he speaks again into his microphone, holding it in a tight grip. “Let’s meet each of our players, starting with the goalies!”
Anticipation hums through my veins as I await my turn to be introduced.
As luck would have it, the announcer starts on the opposite end of the line.
Without a helmet on to mask my expression, it’s nearly impossible to keep a straight, stoic face, not as the shining spotlight inches closer and closer to me.
I focus on a spec of chipped yellow paint at the bottom of the boards to keep from breaking into a grin.
After each goalie’s name is called, the audience erupts with excitement, shaking the foundations of the building.
“…and from our last team: James Harrison of the Chicago Comets!”
When the crowd begins to cheer my name, that’s when this moment hits me with full force.
This is happening. I’m really here, participating in All-Star Weekend as one of eight goaltenders.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I swallow thickly to keep my composure in front of the cameras, my fellow players, the fans, but it’s difficult.
This is a lifelong childhood dream come true.
I raise my stick to the audience, showing my mutual appreciation, hoping it’s enough.
Growing up, All-Star Weekend was akin to a holiday in my household.
My mom and I would wear our favorite team’s jerseys.
Dad would be in the kitchen making food for us, not necessarily a big hockey fan but a big fan of his family nonetheless.
We would gather in front of the TV and watch each of the All-Star challenges.
For two days, it was a chance for us to be together as a family—or at least that’s how my parents would describe it.
For me, All-Star Weekend was purely for the hockey fans who followed individual players’ careers rather than teams as a whole.
It was a chance to see your favorites play alongside each other on a whole new, if temporary, team.
Sure, it wasn’t the Stanley Cup Final, let alone the start of the playoffs, but it was something I looked forward to each year.
Besides my lifelong goal of playing in the NHL, I hoped to one day be like those same players I watched on television as a kid: standing on All-Star ice and representing the best of the best and being a positive role model for other kids like me who couldn’t wait to see their favorite players skate together.
Earning a spot on an NHL team’s roster was a major accomplishment, but being selected by the league to participate in All-Star Weekend was surreal.
I didn’t think it would ever happen, certainly not three years into my NHL career, but here I am under the bright lights.
Some players would argue All-Star Weekend isn’t as important as a regular season game, but I’d disagree.
Maybe there’s less at stake in the grand scheme of things: no season record to uphold, no stats to take into consideration.
Maybe it’s just the nostalgia talking, but there’s one central purpose at the heart of the All-Star games: a love of all things hockey.
This is a chance to thank the fans for their undying love and support.
And if hearing my name wasn’t enough to etch this moment into my memories forever, then hearing the next name in the lineup will.
“...And finally, the last of our goalies, but certainly not least: the Seattle Seadogs goaltender, Eric Sinclair!”
The crowd finds a way to become impossibly louder with the introduction of the thirty-two year old goaltender who has two Stanley Cup rings and multiple Vezina trophies for his excellence in goaltending.
If I was up in the stands instead of being on the ice, I would transform into a crazed fan-boy just like the audience.
The man beside me deserves the praise for his spectacular hockey career.
Eric glows beneath the spotlight, his smile radiant as he raises his stick to acknowledge the crowd’s outpour of love.
He dons his blue and white Seadogs number 33 jersey.
His dark hair is slicked back with a pair of loose tendrils dangling over his forehead, with groomed dark stubble.
He’s an icon among goalies—an outspoken advocate and trailblazer who carried his team to many franchise firsts in his tenure.
It’s no surprise Eric’s my idol. The first time I caught a game with him in the net, my eyes couldn’t leave the screen.
I was mesmerized, transfixed. He played an incredible game, his every movement precise yet fluid.
Beneath the helmet, you could see him smiling; it was the first time I’d seen a goaltender who wasn’t purely stoic or scowling.
Even with so much focus, you could tell Eric loved every minute in the crease.
Whenever Eric’s team won, his joy was palpable, something tangible he shared with each of his teammates as they bumped their helmet against his to show their appreciation.
I first discovered Eric Sinclair while I was a young fledgling goalie playing for my college team.
The Seattle Seadogs had just made it to their first Stanley Cup appearance in franchise history.
At the time, I knew little about the team since I had only ever followed the Eastern Conference while growing up.
Yet when I saw Eric in the net making incredible save after save, I became an instant fan.
The series consumed my every waking thought.
Every game had me on the edge of my seat, and the more I watched his performance, the more I became hopelessly obsessed, hungry to learn more about Eric’s prior goaltending career.
Despite the tremendous pressure, Eric proved goaltending could still remain fun even at the highest level.
I had never wanted anything as much as I wanted Eric and his teammates to win the series.
I’ll never forget how they crashed into his net after they won their first Stanley Cup.
Like every young athlete chasing the dream, I hoped to one day experience that kind of big unforgettable moment with my team.
After that performance, a poster of him hung over my dorm’s bed.
In the picture, Eric’s mid-lunge, making the final game winning save to secure the Stanley Cup.
To me, the poster captures Eric’s most memorable moment from that playoff run.
To this day, that same poster hangs in my apartment above the rest of my Eric Sinclair memorabilia, and the collection’s only grown thanks to having a bigger salary than the one I had in college.
And then there’s his smile. Most official hockey headshots come out terrible, worse than school photos, but Eric’s…
handsome. Confident, charming. They say eyes are gateways to a person’s soul.
With goalies, the eyes are the only facial feature you can focus on thanks to the helmet, and Eric’s green eyes are breathtaking.
So maybe it’s not just Eric’s skills as a goalie that I admire.
It’s also the man underneath. Eric has proven his strength year after year, powering through ups and downs with his team.
No team can win every game, but Eric manages to turn every loss into a lesson.
He believes in his teammates, and his teammates believe in him.
During rare postgame interviews, Eric speaks with so much charisma and confidence, even after heartbreaking losses.
He’s capable of reflecting on the game with vast intelligence and experience in one breath, and in the next, he’s making others laugh with funny one-liners and hockey puns.
To him, hockey is an old friend, maybe even a lover, with all the familiarity, closeness, and intimacy involved.
Being a goalie is more than just a job, it’s part of his personality, intertwined with his identity.
When asked, Eric always says he can’t imagine being something other than a goaltender.
I always hung onto his every word, unable to resist wondering if Eric channels that same enthusiasm into his personal relationships. I’ve caught myself imagining too many times what it would be like to have a man look at me with the same warmth and passion.
Instead, I’m a closeted twenty-seven year old goaltender who’s never so much as kissed another man.
A gentle bump against my shoulder jostles my mind back to the ice.
“Don’t you think they should let us pick who we go up against,” a voice murmurs over the buzz of the crowd, “not the other way around?”
I glance to my left, and to my complete and utter shock, the person who just spoke to me is Eric himself. All the neurons in my brain fry, and I can’t even begin to process what he said to me to form words.
With more patience than I deserve, Eric smiles and repeats himself, “I asked if you think they should let us pick who we go up against.”