Page 19 of The Tryout

Gonna turn in, got practice first thing.

With that, I open my bag next to the dresser. No point in unpacking for seven days. For now, I just need to focus on getting in the minuscule shower and getting a good night’s sleep.

Maybe in the morning, it’ll all look a little brighter.

It does not, in fact, look brighter. Instead, it looks overcast, heavy gray clouds blotting out any attempt by the sun to brighten the day.

I manage to roll out of bed, tossing on a pair of sweats as I pad into the bathroom. I brush my teeth, not bothering to do much of anything to my hair. It’s a little wild, but that will be hidden beneath a helmet before too long. Rifling through my bag, I find a Huskies t-shirt that Jamie sent me home with in March. Hopefully that will make a good impression.

In the lobby, I join the line for breakfast, grabbing a handful of sausage links and a pile of scrambled eggs. I sit and start shoveling them in, astonished at how flavorless the eggs are. I guess tomorrow I’ll get up early enough to find breakfast somewhere else.

Heading outside, I find my rental in the parking lot. After loading my gear in the hatch, I make my way downtown to the arena.

Ethan’s friend, Cameron Banks, is conveniently the assistant coach in charge of defensemen, so his good words fell in the right ear. I know there are hundreds – probably thousands – of guys my age who would give just about anything to have someone put in a good word for them. Instead, I can’t help but resent the fact that I needed it. Banks meets me in the lobby, waiting with me as security gets me a temporary guest pass. Even that word temporary rankles, reminding me that all I’ve got, even after calling in a favor, is a chance.

Pass secured, I follow Banks down hallway after hallway. To some extent, all ice arenas look the same, and that is certainly no different here. Unfinished concrete floors and industrial gray walls, broken up only by doors to various training rooms and offices. One of those offices is, apparently, his, as he opens the door and gestures me inside.

The office has two desks, probably shared with another assistant coach. The other thing sharing the space is an equipment rack, stuffed with pads and skates. I wonder briefly who it belongs to. Suddenly Banks clears his throat and I realize I’m staring.

“I just wanted us to talk over expectations around this tryout, make sure we’re on the same page.”

I nod silently, game face on.

“Ethan Tremblay was one of the best defensive partners I ever had. I always thought of him as a good friend, even when he moved to Minneapolis and I didn’t. And then last year…well, maybe I wasn’t as good a friend to him as I could have been, I guess. Anyway. He tells me you’ve got what it takes, and my blue line lost some important pieces in the offseason. So Coach is willing to see what you can do.”

I nod again, aware that this is not the time to open my mouth.

“But we’re not writing a contract for no reason, not for Ethan and not for Carter, either. If you don’t have what it takes, I’ll tell you.”

“They said the hotel is booked for a week?”

“You may not need to stay that long.”

Ouch.

He picks up where he left off.

“But I figure by Friday, we’ll know what our next steps are, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. You won’t regret it.”

If only I could be sure that’s true.

Coach Banks walks me further down the hallway, pointing out the team gym along the way. Finally, we arrive at the locker room and he gives me a nod before heading further down the hall, presumably to enter the ice.

I head into the locker room, wondering if there will even be a locker for me there. I’ve got no luck in the first two bays of lockers, but in the corner of the final row, I see “Lawson” written on a piece of tape across the top of one of the lockers. I toss my bag inside, grateful to have found the space before the locker room gets too full.

As I start to unpack my pads and skates, the room starts to fill up. There’s a wide variety of ages – older veterans squeezing out a few last years, younger rookies trying to bust into the pros, and everything in between. The youngest guys aren’t even here – they hit up a developmental camp in Minneapolis earlier this summer and are already heading back to their Juniors and college teams.

On the end of the row, though, I notice someone who is definitely on the younger side – younger than me, I think. His sandy brown hair is wavy, just long enough to sink my fingers into.

If you don’t make the team, maybe you can test that out.

My eyes linger, tracing over his bare shoulders and back. He’s more slender than the average hockey player, but that’s probably due to age. He pulls on a practice jersey, taking away my view, replacing it with a name: Murphy.

Well, there goes that idea. Jamie has mentioned this kid before, when he was having a hard time at the beginning of last year. I know he considers him a friend, even poked and prodded at Ethan to offer him a bedroom during the Huskies’ training camp. I decide there’s no time like the present and walk over, tapping him on the back. He jumps, clearly not as aware of me as I was of him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You’re Murphy, yeah?”