Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
When Eric notices my approach, he pockets his phone and waves, his broad smile making my heart skip. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I say with a small smile of my own.
“You ready to grab some breakfast? I’m starving.”
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.” We didn’t exactly settle on a time we’d meet or any other details. I don’t even have his number.
“I made it down a few minutes ago, your timing was perfect,” he reassures as we join the food line with several other guys ahead of us.
A weight lifts off my shoulders, but it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Eric and I haven’t exchanged more than a handful of words and I’m already overthinking this. It’s just breakfast with a teammate… a teammate I deeply admire, respect, and find attractive. No pressure.
Thankfully, All-Star Weekend’s organizers know what hockey players need in the morning—a large continental buffet of options, everything from pancakes and waffles to eggs, bacon, and sausage to every type of fruit.
The league has its share of problems, but it never skimps on food.
We overstuff our plates with a little of everything, but I notice Eric grabs an extra cheese Danish and a chocolate croissant.
We each grab a cup of coffee with cream and a glass of orange juice before turning to the buzzing ballroom in search of somewhere to sit.
Some of the large tables have a mix of players from opposing divisions; others only feature players from the same team.
Amongst the sea of faces, I notice the majority of Team Callahan’s all seated together, with Wes Harper dominating his table’s conversation.
I expect Eric to pick this table or the one with our fellow teammates, but instead he guides me to an empty one towards the edge of the room, further away from the crowd.
“I hope you slept alright. We have a big day ahead of us.”
“Yeah, I did,” I mumble. Eric doesn’t need to know the only thing helping me sleep at night is exhaustion or reading my favorite book. “How about you?”
“Good, all things considered,” Eric answers as he adds pepper to his eggs.
“Did you have a good time? You know, with Harper?”
From the pictures I “stumbled” into last night, the party seemed fun.
“Yeah. Wes talked my ear off, but I didn’t mind.
” Eric takes a sip of his coffee. “Everything for him connects back to hockey one way or another. I’m not sure he has other hobbies, but that doesn’t surprise me.
When I was his age, hockey was kind of my sole personality trait.
All I focused on was how to improve my game.
I think everyone goes through that phase until they can settle in a little. ”
“You’re supposed to grow out of it?”
Eric chuckles. “Some people do.”
Because I’ve researched Eric’s career at length, I’ve seen the pictures of him at Wes’s current age, nineteen going on twenty.
He was playing NCAA hockey when he was drafted into the league in the first round.
Eric didn’t sport the facial hair he does now, and his size didn’t quite match what it would later become with time and further physical development.
What hasn’t changed, however, is his smile.
“I mean, Harper’s right to idolize you. You’re an incredible player,” I say, tearing off a piece of my pastry.
“Thanks. I’ve been fortunate enough to have worked with some great people.”
Silence follows as we focus on breakfast. The longer it lingers, the more I start to feel awkward, unsure of what to say or do to carry our conversation.
Whenever I dreamed about this moment, I always pictured asking Eric question after question about his career, his life, his hobbies and interests, goaltending, but now that I have my chance, I’m blowing it.
“Hey, Eric!”
An arm drapes around Eric from a blonde man I recognize as Braydan Beaumont—the captain for the Seadogs who’s also playing for Team Sinclair this All-Star Weekend. He’s a veteran from the same draft year as Eric and a frequent Norris Trophy recipient for excellence as a defenseman.
“I’m crushed you didn’t tell me Wes Harper invited you and Elizabeth out,” Braydan says, ruffling Eric’s hair. “How was the food? I hear that place has the best wings in all downtown.”
“It was fun, but the ones we had in Dallas still reign supreme.”
Eric nudges Braydan’s hand away, and he fixes his hair, smoothing it back down. Braydan’s eyes wander to me on the other side of the table.
“Oh hey! James, right? We haven’t had a chance to get introduced properly. I’m Braydan.”
He offers his hand, and we shake. His strong grip matches his size, towering over both Eric and I at a staggering six foot six.
“How’re you enjoying your first All-Star Weekend?”
“It’s been great,” I answer with a shy smile.
“Glad to hear it. You were awesome yesterday!”
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to playing again tonight.”
“Me too. I can’t wait to see you give Eric a run for his money with the big saves. Just be careful around him,” he teases. “Rumor has it Eric’s plotting to have goalies take over the league—starting with All-Star Weekend.”
I raise a brow. “Oh?”
Eric rolls his eyes and waves off Braydan. “So maybe I’ve mentioned to the organizers a few times we need more goalie focused events…”
“I’m with you guys,” Braydan says, cracking a smirk, “the people crave more goalie-on-goalie action.”
Both Eric and I snicker, but I imagine we’re interpreting Braydan’s joke in two very different ways.
“Like how come we can’t have a goalie shooting contest?” Eric proposes. “I practice my stick handling as much as everyone else.”
Eric might be onto something. As a kid, my mom and I wished there were more goalie focused events at All-Star Weekend.
“What about a fastest skater contest for us?” I suggest, mostly as a joke. “You know, who can get around the edge of the rink quickest in their gear?”
“That’s a great idea,” Eric says, sporting a toothy grin. “Hell, let us do the 3-on-3. Just have the goalies embrace total chaos. Let us go ham. That’s what this weekend should be all about.”
“Just remember,” Braydan winks, “I’m on your guys’ side when the goalie revolution happens.”
Both Eric and I laugh. Goalies do deserve more love at these events and around the league as a whole. It’s refreshing to have a defenseman recognize that.
“Did you want to join us?” I ask in an effort to be polite. I shouldn’t hog all of Eric’s free time.
“Oh, no. Just coming over to say hi before heading back up with all this.” All this being several to-go containers full of breakfast food. “I shouldn’t keep Kaori waiting. I’ll see you two later!”
Braydan heads off, weaving through the crowd of tables and players to leave the dining area. Eric and Braydan must be close friends to be able to tease each other so much.
“He seems like a really good guy.”
“Braydan’s one of the friendliest guys in the league and an outstanding defenseman. You’ll appreciate having him play in front of you, James.”
“I have no doubt!”
I meant what I said to Braydan. Not only am I excited to play alongside Eric and study his goaltending style, but I’m about to play with an elite defenseman.
All-Star Weekend has been nothing but golden opportunities, chances to learn from the best and…
well, hopefully become their friends along the way.
“Did anyone else besides your sister come to All-Star Weekend?” I ask, shifting the conversation.
“Just our folks. They flew down from San Jose. It’s not often the four of us get to see each other during the season, so it’s been nice.” Eric takes a drink of his coffee. “What about you?”
I shake my head. “My dad’s back home. Probably grading papers or something.”
“Oh, he’s a teacher?”
“English professor. He works at Harvard.”
“Wow, that’s pretty prestigious. He must be smart.”
“Yeah. He’s won a few awards for the poetry he’s published.”
In our home back in Massachusetts, my dad’s awards and bestselling poetry collections share shelf real-estate right beside the hockey trophies.
“If goaltending’s my entire personality, then American literature is his.”
“That’s still pretty incredible to write poetry. Has he been inspired by your career?”
Eric’s question seems genuine, so I try not to laugh at the thought of my dad writing poems about my career. “Not exactly.”
“Not into sports-themed sonnets?”
Now I can’t resist a chuckle.
“I’m serious! There’s plenty of inspiration to be found in sports.”
“I’m sure there is,” I shrug, poking at my remaining hashbrowns, “but my dad’s not into hockey. Or sports at all, really.”
Sure, my dad came to some games growing up, but comparing his participation to my mom’s in this sport is apples and oranges.
Mom did all the heavy lifting when it came to being interested in my hockey career.
My dad’s never come out and said it, but I suspect some part of him’s always been disappointed I didn’t turn into the same kind of bookworm as him.
Funny how my family’s dynamic turned out this way.
Some kids have dads pressuring them into a particular sport; mine just wanted me to share a similar love of Walt Whitman.
Which, I do. Just not to the same degree as my father.
“Not that he’s never been to my games,” I clarify. “He just doesn’t… get as fired up as some parents do, I guess.”
“Considering how intense some hockey parents get, that might be a good thing.”
Yeah, I never had to worry about my dad screaming at a referee.
Instead, dad always asked questions in the car after practice despite understanding nothing about the butterfly technique or reverse vertical horizontals.
Maybe one of dad’s grad students will unearth some long forgotten diary entry about a poet’s secret love of hockey, and dad will go wild and become interested in the sport overnight.