Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
JAMIE
Las Vegas, July
The ballroom erupts. Cameras whip toward the stage, lights flashing as Jake adjusts his tie and heads up like he owns the place. I stay seated, relief prickling under the nerves. Dallas didn’t pick me. Whatever happens next, at least it won’t be that.
The draft is being held in one of those cavernous hotel ballrooms. On top of the rest of my draft class are agents, parents, and photographers.
Along the edges of the room, enormous screens advertise various league sponsors in between each selection.
I shift in my chair, the stiff collar of my suit jacket sticking to the back of my neck.
It’s freezing and somehow still sweaty in here, the air-conditioned kind of cold that does nothing to calm my nerves.
That being said, the press around Williamson has been...not great. There have been car wrecks, a minor in possession charge that magically disappeared, and a bar fight not even two months ago. I really thought Kowalski would go before him.
I push my messy blond hair off my forehead and look around the room. On the other side of Dave sits my mom, nerves etched into every line of her face. I see a text from Avery come through— Smile, dumbass. You’re on TV. I resist the urge to flip off the camera.
“I should have gotten a haircut.” I finger-comb through the waves, trying to get a look that says “hockey flow” and not “just got out of bed”.
“Stop fidgeting. It makes you look nervous.” Dave whispers to me out the side of his mouth.
“I am nervous.” I thought that would have been obvious.
“Yes, but you can't look it.” I run a finger around my collar as I wait for the NHL Commissioner to return to the microphone.
"With the second pick overall, the Vancouver Whales take Andrei Petrov."
This one is more of a disappointment. I know the Whales are desperate for a quality goalie to step in when the current one retires, but the organization really has its shit together on inclusion. Maybe, if the worst happens, they can grab me in the second round?
The next few teams - Denver, Miami, and New York – go for defensive players to fill obvious gaps in their rosters.
As we reach the middle of the pack, I look to Dave again for reassurance.
I know he's spoken to several teams on my behalf, but I also know they've been very hesitant to make any firm commitments.
Another goalie goes to Los Angeles, and I notice my mom frowns. I know she had hoped I could play for a hometown team, sticking close to the support structure I've built there. Alas, it isn't meant to be. The Commissioner approaches the microphone again.
“With the sixth overall pick, the Toronto Bears take Marek Kowalski.”
Shit. Dave had had big hopes for Toronto, I know, but they'd never been willing to fully commit. But Kowalski will be absolutely annihilated by the much-larger NHL players; what were they thinking?
I’m afraid I know exactly what they were thinking.
Too much of a distraction.
Too much press.
Too gay.
Things were suddenly looking a lot worse.
Dave leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Alright, at this point let's hope for Vancouver or Toronto in the second. With less focus on the pick, they may go for it still.”
They may go for it?
“And if they don't?”
I was so focused on the hardened look on Dave's face that I almost missed it.
“...take Jamie Carter!”
Based on the quiet that falls over the room, I'm not the only one stunned. I didn't even hear who it was...seventh overall? Who was that?
As I approach the stage, a polite smattering of applause starts, and I'm handed a Minnesota Huskies cap by the GM, Greg Winthrop. With a firm handshake, I officially meet my new boss.
The Minnesota Huskies?
Are there even gay people in Minnesota?
In his seat, Dave looks just as shocked as me. When he meets me backstage, I ask “Were they even on your radar?”
“Not enough to mention to you. No one talked to me directly, but I had heard the GM was asking around a bit. He’s an old-school hockey guy—hard-nosed, traditional, the kind who still talks about grit and character like it’s 1995.
And the captain’s got a reputation for being a bit of a stick in the mud. I figured it was a non-starter.”
I blink. The screens around me seem a little too bright, the air too thin. My stomach turns. As I try to process his words, my phone starts buzzing in my hand, more words from Avery flooding my screen.
Avery Lawson 8:16 PM
Fucking Minneapolis????
Dude
Are there even queer people in Minnesota?
How much snow do they get each year?
52 inches
I googled it.
His spiral isn't far off my own, and I have no idea how to respond. As I stare at the screen, the phone begins ringing in my hand, an unknown 952 number lighting up the screen.
“That's probably your new captain calling. Try to make a good impression.”
I step away to answer the call, my thumb hovering for a moment over the screen.
“Um...hello?”
There's a pause on the other end. Then,
“Hey, uh. Carter? This is Ethan Tremblay. Captain of the Huskies.”
Tremblay has played for the Huskies since he was in the minors.
He's had offers from other places – big offers, even – but for some reason he's happy to stay right where he is.
That made more sense seven years ago, when he was in his mid-twenties and they were fresh off their second Stanley Cup in five years.
Now he's in his early thirties, and still a lockdown defenseman. But the team’s been on a scoring drought that has left them struggling to even make the playoffs for years. I know exactly why they want a forward — but why me?
“Thanks for calling. I was a little surprised I was picked by you guys, to be honest.”
“Um, yeah. Me too.”
Oh. That's...not a good sign. His tone is measured, almost clipped. Like this call was a suggestion he didn’t agree with.
I force a smile, trying to inject the right mix of confidence and gratitude into my voice.
First-round picks don’t get to sound nervous.
A tight silence follows as I scramble for my next words.
“Well. I’m excited. I’ve heard good things about the city.”
Apparently, now I've stooped to outright lying.
“It’s nice in the summer,” Ethan says. “July’s humid. Winters’ll kill you.”
“Good to know.”
It seems like Ethan Tremblay isn't just a brick wall on the ice; I've had warmer conversations with actual walls.
“Anyway,” he says. “Camp starts in six weeks. We’ll see you there. Good luck.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen for a second too long. Something tells me I’m going to need more than luck.
Staring at the phone in my hand, the wheels start to spin in my head.
“What are our options here, Dave?”
He looks at me as though I've just grown a second head. “Options? What do you mean options?”
“If I don't want to play for them. What can I do? How can I salvage this?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he exhales, long and slow, and rubs his temples like I’ve just given him a migraine. I probably have.
“I mean...there's not a lot you can do, Jamie. They've got your rights for two years. Usually, I would tell a younger player to spend some time in the juniors or college developing, but...you already did that.”
Yes, because believe it or not, the draft prospects for a gay 18-year-old Jamie Carter had been even worse than for a gay 22-year-old Jamie Carter.
I’d spent four years at UCLA growing into the player I am today—stronger, faster, smarter—but that also put me well past the age requirements for junior league hockey. No going backward now.
“Okay,” I say. “Juniors and college are out. What else?”
Dave straightens a little, his tone turning sharp, like he’s trying to shake some sense into me.
“What do you mean, what else? You got drafted in the first round into the NHL – that’s not nothing.
It means they’re not just willing to take a chance on you; they’re ready to invest in you.
You go to Minneapolis. You play hockey. You win. That’s what else.”
“And if they're openly homophobic? Or they send me to fester in...oh my God, where is their AHL team, even?”
“Des Moines.”
“Idaho?”
“Iowa.”
“Same difference.”
Dave pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s calculating how much I’m costing him per second.
“So they send me to Iowa, what then?” I ask, quieter now. The energy’s draining out of me, fast.
“Then you call me, and we think about next steps.” He says it like it’s a lifeline, but I’m already slipping.
“We could try to get them to trade you. But that only works if they want to move you and someone else wants to pick you up. That’s a pretty narrow window.
If you win, they’ll want to keep you. If you lose, no one else will want you anyway. ”
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because I think he's wrong. But because I know he’s right.
“And if being gay really is the distraction everyone whispers it is?” He pauses, jaw tight.
“Well, Jamie, then I won’t be able to trade you to a beer league in Florida.”
The silence stretches between us.
“So your best bet is to go to Minneapolis and make it work.”