Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
COLBY
“Will you stop that?” Mom scolds, slapping my hand away from my mouth, where I’m gnawing on the side of my thumb. “You don’t need to be nervous; it’s going to be amazing.”
I wish I could believe her, but it isn’t the draft I’m worried about.
It’s what comes after.
The pressure. The lack of boundaries and invasion of privacy.
The knowing that every single thing I do is going to be put under a microscope and observed and scrutinized.
I’m ready to take the next step in my career, but I’m not sure if I’m ready for everything that comes with it, and that’s without the world knowing who I love.
During the scouting combine, I felt like I was suffocating.
I know it’s supposed to be the most physically and mentally exhausting test you do as a player, but by the time the day was over, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I lost every meal that I ate into the toilet or the trash can, and it wasn’t only because I was putting my body through rigorous exercises.
It was also because it felt more like an interrogation than an interview when it was time to sit in front of the media.
I couldn’t tell you what I said or what I was asked. I had to put every piece of media training I’ve ever learned into practice and hope I was going to get through to the other side.
And I did, but it still didn’t matter that I had come first in almost every category; people were still tearing me down.
My mom ended up confiscating my phone and refused to give it back until we got back home, but I had seen enough.
I knew it was only the beginning when those reporters stopped me after the Hockey East Championship.
I guess a naive part of me thought I was overreacting.
Boston was one of the first teams that interviewed me. They asked questions about my years playing junior hockey and the year I spent at Whilton U. How supportive my parents have been and cleverly worded questions to see whether my values met the ones of the organization.
Then they asked about how I handle the attention from the media that has been focused on me since I was a kid. I didn’t know what to say, because I couldn’t let them know that I wish it didn’t bother me.
It’s a sign of weakness, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to believe that their words had an impact on me.
So, I simply shrugged and said that I ignore it.
Because I’m going to need to learn how to ignore it. I’m not going to have Tyler to protect me from lingering reporters when I play in the NHL. I’m not going to have the ability to slip out the back door and walk home unnoticed.
The spotlight is going to be wide open, highlighting every move I make and leaving nowhere to hide.
So when we arrived in Vancouver a few days ago, I downloaded Instagram again and took a shot at messaging Beau Rousseau to see if he would be open to meeting with me.
He’s the only person I know of who has to deal with a similar level of scrutiny and would understand the fears I’m harboring, so if anyone has any advice on how to handle it, it’s him.
I wasn’t sure if he was going to respond, seeing as the Steelheads lost during Game 6 of the Finals, but he replied the following day, and now I’m waiting to go and meet him before I need to get ready for the draft this evening.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I pick it up so fast my dad chuckles beside me. The second I see it’s from Beau to say he’s here, I jump from the couch and make my way toward the door.
“I’m going to meet Beau,” I tell my mom as she fixes her hair in the bathroom.
“Okay, sweetie. Do you have a card key in case we need to go out for any reason?”
I slide the card out that’s in the power socket, and I hear my dad curse behind me as the TV goes off.
“I was watching that!” he calls out as I open the door, and I can’t stop the nervous laughter from slipping out.
“Yep, I got one. Okay, later,” I say over my shoulder and head out of the suite.
I take the elevator up to the rooftop bar and wince at the brightness of the sun as the doors open.
Taking my sunglasses from the top of my head, I slip them on, then look around for Beau. It’s not too busy, so he’s easy to spot standing at the bar. His dark hair is an unruly mess, kind of like mine, and my mouth twists into an amused grin.
Tyler would get such a kick out of this right now. He’d probably tease me for being so giddy over meeting my favorite player.
But that spark of amusement soon fizzles out and is replaced by a sense of mourning.
It’s been six weeks since I last saw him.
Six long, agonizing weeks where I’ve been torn up over whether to message him and tell him I miss him or respect his need for space.
But maybe I’ll text him tonight after the draft. I can let him know where I’ll be going, that I miss him like fucking crazy, and I’ll be waiting for him for however long it takes.
Stepping out of the elevator, I head in the direction of where Beau stands, resting his hands on the bar top. His gaze slowly bounces around the space, like he’s clocking each person up here, and as I get closer, I notice the tension lining his jaw and the stiffness in his spine.
He’s on edge, and a knot in my stomach coils tightly.
Is this going to be me in the future? Unable to relax in a public space in case someone is watching, waiting to catch me out?
Fuck, is he going to hate me for asking him to come here?
My pulse quickens as panic sets in. Stepping up beside Beau at the bar, I clear my throat, then say quietly, “Hey. Thanks for meeting me.”
Beau turns toward me, and his face softens as he greets me with a warm smile and holds out his hand. “Hey, and anytime. Do you want a drink?”
I shake his hand and nod. “Yeah, please. Just a soda.”
Beau orders me a soda and a light beer for himself, then spots an empty booth at the end of the terraced space.
“Let’s take a seat over there,” he says, picking up his beer.
With my soda in hand, I follow him in the direction of the booth, my gaze catching the slight limp in his gait and how he’s overcompensating to try and make it less obvious.
When did he get hurt? I saw him take a nasty hit during the conference finals, but he continued to play right up until the end.
We slide into opposite sides of the booth, and he angles his body to shield himself from the rest of the bar, like he doesn’t want to be seen. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if he’s okay when he speaks first.
“I feel kinda honored to be in your presence, to be honest. I’ve been keeping an eye on your stats, and fuck me, you’re making big waves.”
My face heats in embarrassment, and I chuckle nervously. “So people keep telling me.”
“Are you looking forward to the draft tonight?” he asks, taking a sip of his beer.
“Honestly, yes and no,” I answer truthfully. “Yes, because I’m eager to get started on the next chapter, and who wouldn’t be excited at the prospect of playing in the NHL, but also no, because I’m kinda scared of what it’s going to entail.”
Beau furrows his brows in a confused frown. “What do you mean?”
Glancing down at the table, I fiddle with the coaster, rotating it between my fingers and the table.
This is the first time I’ve talked to someone about this outside of my parents, Callie, Tyler, and Coach Vaughn. The fear of being perceived as ungrateful has nausea churning in my stomach.
Beau Rousseau is someone I look up to, someone I greatly admire, and the whole point of us meeting was to get his advice, but the thought of him thinking negatively of me has my palms turning damp.
“I was in fifth grade when the first article was published about me. I remember coming home from school, and my dad was on his laptop at the kitchen counter, and he placed his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘There’s two things I want you to remember. One, I want you to remember to always ignore the noise. Sometimes it’ll get really loud, and you won’t be able to ignore it, but you have to try your best. And two, if it ever stops being fun, you can stop.
Promise me you’ll remember that?’” A small smile crosses my face, remembering the serious look in my dad’s eyes that day.
“I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but over the years, it started to make sense.
The pressure that comes with the unrealistic expectations that have been placed on my shoulders for me to carry.
The scrutiny that comes with not meeting those expectations… ”
My gaze drifts up to Beau. There’s a look of understanding on his face, and he gives me a small nod to continue.
“I’m worried that I’m not strong enough to cope with it all. I just want to play hockey. I’m not in it to make millions and buy five houses and a boat. I just want to play the game that I love…” My words trail off as my heart pounds in my ears.
Avoiding Beau’s gaze, I glance down at the table again, my jaw tensing before I quietly add, “I’m scared that whatever tonight brings, that love might be taken away from me, and I will lose who I am in the process.”
When Beau doesn’t say anything, I peek up at him, and his throat moves as he swallows.
“I’m really sorry you’re feeling like this, Colby. You shouldn’t be made to feel afraid for going after your dreams,” he says with a sad smile. “I wish I could tell you it’ll get better and easier, but I don’t know that. I mean, fuck, I wish people would leave me alone sometimes.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, and I laugh too.