Chapter Thirty-Nine
KAYDEN
Buffalo, New York. It was June, and the weather was decent with highs in the seventies and lows in the fifties.
We hadn’t gotten to do much exploring yet, as the combine and interviews took up most of the time, but celebrations were to take place after the draft, if there was a reason to celebrate.
My eyes roamed the mirror, looking at the suit, trying to adjust it. It feels wrong. Like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.
The navy fabric was crisp, tailored perfectly to fit my shoulders and chest, but it was like a costume. Like I was playing a part I hadn't quite grown into yet.
My phone buzzed on the dresser. I picked it up, half-hoping it was her, but it was Dylan.
I frowned, wishing I could get her out of my head.
Dylan: Are you ready?
I stared at the message for a minute. Was I ready? Fuck no I wasn’t. I wanted to puke if I was being honest.
Me: I guess.
Dylan: Meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.
I set the phone down and glanced at myself one more time. My hair was combed back, my jaw clean-shaven. In a way I looked older, like I knew what I was doing and not some college kid.
On the inside, it was almost as if I was a kid again, standing on the ice for the first time, trying to figure out if I was good enough.
My gaze drifted to my wallet which was open to a small photo I had tucked into one of the pockets.
It was when we were twelve, after we’d gotten done throwing water balloons at each other in the back yard.
Jake was in the middle, and Lexi and I were standing on either side of him.
Big smiles on our faces, as if there wasn’t a care in the world.
I’d kept it as a reminder of simple times, back when we were kids, and when he was alive.
I reached for my phone again, my thumb hovering over her name. The urge to text her was strong, but I didn’t. She needed space and I was going to give it to her, even if that meant not having the one person that I needed the most on standby.
Fuck, get this over with.
My stomach twisted in knots, the unease of not knowing when I’d be picked or if I’d be picked at all. I didn’t care what team I went to, I wanted to be chosen.
You can do this. Everything will be okay, breathe.
I placed my wallet in my pocket, grabbed my phone and walked out of the hotel room to meet Dylan.
It was a ten minute drive to KeyBank Center.
And as we got in the car, I tried my best to not lose my shit.
Ten minutes later we arrived at the massive arena.
I'd been to plenty of big venues before, but this was different. It wasn’t about playing and showing off my skills, it was about being chosen; proving that I was worth the investment and the risk.
The parking lot was packed with black SUVs and luxury sedans, media vans with satellite dishes on top, and clusters of people in suits talking on their phones. Cameras were everywhere, flashing as players and their families walked towards the entrance.
Dylan came up beside me, his own suit as nice as mine, though he wore it with more confidence. He’d always been the better talker, while I was better on the ice.
"You look like you're about to puke," Dylan said, straightening his tie as we walked toward the entrance.
I rubbed my sweaty hands on my pants, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He grinned. "Just saying. Try to smile once in a while. The scouts want to see that you're not a fucking robot."
I raised my hand and flipped him off, a smirk playing on his lips. He clapped me on the shoulder, and I shrugged him off. Asshole.
Inside, the main floor had been transformed into a stage with rows of tables for each team, their logos displayed on massive screens overhead.
Scouts and executives sat in clusters, reviewing tablets and talking in low voices.
The stands were filled with families, agents, media personnel, and fans who'd come to watch the next generation of players get their shot.
The amount of cologne in the air made my head spin. Fuck, why do people wear so much?
Coach found us and I couldn’t get over how different he looked in a suit. He was dressed to be formal, but the way his jaw clenched and nostrils flared, I knew he wasn’t happy about being in anything other than his athletic gear.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
We both nodded, but I didn’t say the words.
"Good. Remember, no matter what happens today, you've earned this. Both of you. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."
"Yes, sir," I said.
He clapped us both on the back, then gestured toward the seating area. "Your families are already here. Go find them, get settled. The draft starts in an hour."
Dylan headed off toward his parents, who were waving from a few rows up. I scanned the crowd, looking for Dad, and found him sitting near the middle, arms crossed, face blank.
He didn't wave, but nodded and I reciprocated the notion. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough for now.
The first round started with a video montage; highlights from the season, interviews with top prospects, dramatic music that made everything bigger than it was. I watched the screen, but it flashed by because my heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
The first pick was announced, and the arena erupted in applause. Alexander Morozov from Ontario walked onto the stage, shook hands with the team's general manager, and pulled on a jersey with his name on the back.
One by one, names were called. Players walked onto the stage, emotions of joy written all over their faces.
And with every name that wasn't mine, my chest tightened a little more.
What if I didn’t get picked?
What if all the training, sacrifices and pain were for nothing?
What if I wasn't good enough?
I forced myself to breathe, to focus on the stage, to stop spiraling.
You can do this.
By the time they reached the middle of the first round, my knees bounced and my palms were sweating.
Dylan had been picked three spots earlier by a team in the Midwest. He'd walked onto the stage with his trademark grin, shook hands, pulled on the jersey, and looked back at me with a thumbs-up.
I'd clapped for him, genuinely happy, but inside, the anxiety was eating me alive.
What if I didn't go in the first round?
What if I had to wait until tomorrow, sitting in the arena for another day, watching other players get their dreams while mine stayed just out of reach?
The announcer's voice cut through my thoughts.
"With the thirtieth pick in the first round, the California Cobras select...Kayden Matthews, Center, SilverCrest University."
For a second, I didn't move.
I sat there, staring at the stage, my brain trying to catch up with what I'd heard.
California.
They'd picked me. Holy shit.
I stood, and started walking toward the stage. The applause was deafening, but it was almost a distant sound, like I was underwater.
Cameras flashed. People shouted my name, Coach grinned and Dad was on his feet.
I climbed the steps, shook hands with the general manager, pulled on the black-and-gold hat, and held up the jersey. It was heavy and completely real. This is happening. It’s fucking happening.
The GM leaned in, a huge smile on his face. "Welcome to California, son. You’re going to need to trade in those snow boots for some swim shorts. We’re lucky to have you."
"Thank you," I managed, my voice rough.
He clapped me on the back, and I turned to face the crowd, holding up the jersey for the cameras.
This is it.
This is everything I'd worked for.
And yet, as I stood there, smiling for the photos, all I could think about was the one person who wasn't here to see it.