Puck Shots, page 20
“You got this,” Eli says, squeezing my hand as we follow my parents into TD Garden, where they’re hosting this year’s NHL draft. Boston hasn’t hosted a draft in over twenty years, so it’s packed. Not that the draft is ever not packed. I’ve only ever watched it on television.
“Good to see you again,” Greg Love says, shaking my parents’ hands. “Are you ready?” Greg asks me next, and my mouth goes impossibly dry.
“No,” I reply, and he chuckles.
“You’ll be fine, promise. Come on, your seats are this way,” he says, leading us past a few rows of seats before stopping and pointing down the line. Paper reserved signs rest over the seat backs with my name on them and just seeing it there, printed alongside the NHL logo sends my system into overdrive. Holy fucking shit, this is really happening.
Mom sits first followed by Dad, me, then Eli, Rachel, Tony, and Calvin. I wish Brent could be here for this, too. Of all my siblings, he’s been the one to have my back always, but I know he’ll be watching from home in the UK.
“Can I get you a water or anything?” Greg asks, but I shake my head. If I drink anything, I’ll have to pee, and if I’m in the bathroom when they call my name… if they call my name, then I’ll go down in history as the guy who missed his moment because of his bladder. No telling what nickname I’d get then.
“Well, I’ll check in on you later. Have fun, kid. You earned every minute of this.”
“Thanks,” I say, and Eli gives my hand another small squeeze.
He leans in to whisper in my ear. “How big are you freaking out right now?”
“I’m at about one thousand,” I say, and he slides my sleeve up a little and unbuttons the cuff of my shirt.
“Look,” he says, and I turn my attention to where his soft fingertip traces the outline of the now permanently tattooed lightning bolt on my inner wrist. Then he turns his wrist up to show me the matching one on his. The permanent reminder to us both that we’ll always have a piece of each other. I skim my fingers over his tattoo, up his palm, and then clasp his hand in mine.
“What if no team picks me? Boston has the fifth pick and Chicago has seventh in the first round. They both made a point to tell me that, so it could be either of them, right? Or did I ask what pick they got at one of the lunches or dinners? Then it might be neither of them.” I say, my voice trembling a little.
“Greg said you’re expected to be a first-round pick, right?” he asks, and I nod, the gravity of that fully hasn’t sunk in. Like most of the legends I’ve been looking up to my whole life weren’t first round picks, how the fuck am I expected to be one?
Eli leans in closer, his breath sending a shiver up the side of my neck when he speaks.
“Greg wouldn’t be telling you that if he wasn’t really positive it would happen, would he?”
“I guess, but what if I’m not picked, like, at all?”
Eli turns my face towards him, and when I settle my gaze on his bright smiling eyes, my pulse starts to steady.
“The chances of that are almost zero,” he says, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
“You’re a science guy, you know that’s not true,” I say, and he shrugs.
“Actually, based on the media coverage, the prediction lists, you know, all those things you’ve been trying to avoid so you don’t spiral and freak out.”
I nod.
“Well, when you take those and the fact you’ve had multiple meetings with at least three different teams in just the past month, I’m confident in my statistic.”
“But what if—”
“Stop. Have you even known a player to be here and not be drafted?”
Has that ever happened? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it actually happening, but I could be the first. That thought sends my nerves back into overdrive.
“The answer is no, and it’s the answer to the other question rolling around in your head, too,” Eli says, and I meet his gaze. His soft, kind eyes smiling back at me. “You won’t be the first it happens to. This is your day. Enjoy it. You’ve worked so hard to get here, this is it. You’ve done it.”
And with that, the commissioner steps out onto the stage and the crowd goes wild.
Eli settles back into his chair, his hand still clasped with mine as we watch it all begin. I try to focus on one thing at a time as a way to control that nervous energy bubbling inside. The camera occasionally pans to me and the family, and I smile, hoping I don’t look as terrified as I feel. But every now and then I catch a shot on one of the big screens showing a replay of one of my games, and I start to realize, this is actually awesome. This whole thing is amazing.
The atmosphere in TD Graden is electric, the media and public attention driving up the excitement levels, and when I go to swallow and find my mouth thick, I’m second guessing declining the drink offer.
Almost like he’s read my mind, Eli reaches down and pulls a small water bottle from a bag I didn’t even see him carry in.
“Here, take small sips,” he says, handing it over, and I smile down at where the label has been torn from the bottle.
The commissioner calls out the first pick. It isn’t me. It was unlikely it was going to be me. Greg would have said if he thought I could be top five, wouldn’t he? I cheer and clap as each name gets called, they walk on stage, put on their team jersey and hat, and wave for the cameras. It’s all so surreal to even be in the crowd for this. I watch every year, cheering when my favorites get picked but now it’s my turn to be the one people cheer for.
“With the fifth selection for this year’s NHL draft, The Boston Basilisk, are proud to select, from Boston University…”
Could this be it? Eli squeezes my hand, or I’m squeezing his. I’m not sure which. I wait, bated breath as the commissioner pauses, smiling into the card in his hands, reveling in the fact that he knows what I am desperate to hear. Is it me? Is it Luka? He’s sitting somewhere in this sea of people waiting, probably as nervous as I am. They should have sat us together.
The commissioner looks up from the card. “Cosmo Parks.”
Wait, did I hear that right?
Eli jostles my arm.
“It’s you, Cos, you got picked,” he says, and I stand, my heart beating so loud it’s thumping in my ears as Mom steps around Dad to hug me. I got picked fifth. I got picked fifth in the first round of the NHL draft by Boston. I’m staying in Boston. Eli is in Boston. Fuck yes. Oh, my God. How is this not a dream?
“Congratulations, son,” Mom says into my ear, and when she lets go, I catch a tear rolling down her cheek. I’m going to still be close enough to visit home, too. Fuck. The Boston Basilisk want me.
Dad hugs me next, patting my back. “You did it, Cosmo. You made it,” he says.
“I made it,” I reply, but my voice comes out all squeaky so I turn, and Eli is there, wide smile, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold in his excitement so that he doesn’t launch himself at me live on camera for the world to see.
I can tell just by looking at him he’s about ready to burst. I haven’t hidden our relationship from anyone. Fuck, I even talked him up at my very first meeting with the exact team that decided to pick me.
So, I wrap my arms around him and spin him in place, not caring if he kicks my brother on the way round or who sees. Then I kiss him quickly before letting him go, a blush on his cheeks I will never tire of seeing.
“Go have your moment,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” I say, and he laughs.
“You’re not. You made it.”
My brothers and Rachel hug me on my way past them, and then I’m led by an usher up through the aisle towards the stage. Cameras flash, and people I don’t know call my name, drawing my attention for a moment here and there, but then I spot Luka standing a few rows down and jog to meet him at the side.
“You’ll be next, brother,” I say, and he grabs my hand and gives me our signature bro hug.
“You bet I will. Now get the hell up there already.”
I’m ushered along, up the stairs to where the team rep of the Boston Basilisk is waiting, jersey in hand to greet me.
“Welcome to the team,” he says, shaking my hand and passing me the black, white, and purple jersey. I pull it on, loving the way the thick fabric hugs my body. I look down at the intimidating logo of a basilisk biting down on a hockey puck on my chest, the sound of the crowd an incoherent hum in the background.
“Congrats, son,” the commissioner says, drawing my attention and handing me the cap with the same colors and logo on the front. I tilt my head back, the giant screen behind me lit up with an enormous jersey with my name and number on it.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, pulling the cap on and turning to wave to the crowd.
I stand there, taking in every second of this moment. I told everyone I’d make it here, that this is where I belonged and that this was my future. But until right now, this moment, standing here with it actually a reality in my life, I’m not sure I honestly believed it would happen. I catch Eli’s gaze in the crowd, his smile like a beacon in the night. He knew. He never doubted I’d get here. He never doubted me, but I also know that if I didn’t make it, he’d still be there, in my corner, loving me for exactly who I am, with or without hockey.
But I did get here.
Holy fuck. I’m actually drafted to the NHL.
Epilogue
Cosmo
Two years later
“The game replay is starting,” Eli yells out just as I close our apartment door behind me. “Oh, and welcome home.”
I call it our place, even though Eli hasn’t officially moved in yet, but he spends at least three nights a week here instead of at the frat house, and I’m hoping the second he graduates, he’ll spend every night forever here with me.
“Thanks, I’ll just be one second,” I call back and kick off my shoes, leaving them in the pile that sits by the door. Luka bought me an organizer thing, but it’s full, so the floor is good enough. I’ll be putting those shoes on again tomorrow, anyway. I hadn’t seen Luka in weeks until today. He plays for Philly now, while I’m still contracted to Boston, and tonight we played our first game against each other. Fuck, it was weird not being able to shoot him the puck. We can still read each other’s moves pretty well, too, which meant he knew when to block me and I knew when he was going to take a shot. Our ability to read each other is probably why our coaches kept us on the ice at the same time. Though if he can just get traded back here, we can put that best friend’s intuition to better use playing together.
“Did you win? Is Luka okay?”
I jog up the narrow hallway, sliding the last three feet on my socks into the living room where Eli is sitting on our brown leather couch, nursing a bowl of popcorn in his lap.
“You haven’t seen the score yet?” I ask, and he responds with a headshake.
“I haven’t long gotten home myself. I still can’t believe I had to miss your home game. I swear once I graduate, I’ll be at every single one.”
“It’s okay, besides, this way I get to watch you watch me.”
“Did you invite Luka over?”
“He had to get back to Philly, but he said to say hi. How were classes and work?” I ask, plonking down beside him.
“Classes were full on, and it’s an internship, so not really work, but it was good. Also, your move,” he says, nodding to the ongoing chess game in the middle of our coffee table. It’s his set, though I have contributed to a few upgrades of the pieces, finding some really cool things on our walks together along the woods behind the frat house every night when I was still there.
I move my rook to F3 to defend against his attack, then lean back on the couch, throw my arm over his shoulder, and pull him in, kissing the top of his head as he snuggles in close. He’s been interning at Oskar Performance Labs in between his classes for the past year. It’s a high-tech facility that has him continuing his athletic analysis program to implement it in multiple sports. He retains the patent for it, but the company has invested in the development for a percentage of the future profits and some kind of non-exclusive license to use it while he’s interning at their facility. I wasn’t so sure if he was getting a good deal or not, but he’s happy, and that’s what matters to me.
“Are you really not going to tell me if you won or not?”
“Nope,” I reply, grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it into my mouth, mumbling. “Can’t talk. Eating.”
“Well, you’re in pretty good mood, so I’d say you did alright.”
He laughs, shrugging my way, then turns back to the television. The puck is dropped, and the game is off to a pretty shitty start for me.
“Come on, Lewis, he was right there,” I yell.
“It’s a replay, Hun. Plus, you were there, you already saw this.”
“Not from that angle. Fuck, come onnnnn.”
Eli chuckles.
“Give it to me already. How far in are we, shit, get them, come on. Fuck, no. Yes! Great save, Reddy, let’s gooooo.”
The starter goalie was out tonight so it was awesome getting Reddy in there to prove what he’s got. He did amazing too. As fast as the game feels when you’re out there on the ice, it can be just as fast watching it on television.
“Yay, you got the puck. Okay, here we go,” Eli says, passing me the popcorn bowl and leaning forward in his seat.
I see my stats pop up on the corner of the screen. As much as I loved my nickname through college, it’s actually really nice seeing my real name up there. The camera pans the crowd, and people are wearing my jersey, holding signs with my name and number, cheering for me in a real NHL game, and fuck, this feeling will never get old.
“That was a nice crossover, perfect technique,” Eli says, and my chest warms at the compliment. “Cool, tight turn, too, you’re killing it out there.”
It was only a few years ago that Eli was totally lost in a conversation about hockey, how fast things can change. One thing that hasn’t changed, is my feelings for him.
“Oh, come on, he should have rotated left, you saw that, right?”
“I’m just here for the chaos and cuddles,” Eli says, snuggling back into my side.
He tilts his head to look at me. I lean down and kiss him, soft and sweet. His warm lips parted slightly, making my cock twitch.
“You’re missing the reply,” I whisper before kissing him again.
“I’m good with that. I don’t need you on replay. I’ll take your love in real time.”
“It’s yours. Forever.”
***
Thank you for reading Puck Shots.
Curious about Brent or Ferris (Reddy)? Check out Full Tilt by Becca Seymour to read Brent’s story and Top Shelf by EM Lindsey for Ferris’s. Plus, you’ll meet other members of the Love the Game group chat by reading the whole series available on Amazon: https://geni.us/lovethegame
Love The Game
Read them here:
New Rules by Willow Thomas
Offside Play by Becca Steele
Barn Burner by Jodi Oliver
The Poster Boy by EM Denning
Full Tilt by Becca Seymour
Puck Shots by Becca Jackson
Top Shelf by EM Lindsay
Play with Me by Cora Rose
Acknowledgments
Ahuge shout out to the other amazing authors in the Love The Game shared world. Trying to tie together characters from not only different sports, but different parts of the world was not an easy feat, but we did it!
Am I secretly hoping I can commission art that shows all our guys together at that group dinner that started it all, absolutely!
To Becca Seymour, thank you so much for giving Cosmo's big brother, Brent, his HEA and for beta reading Cosmo's story, I hope we can work together on another project soon. Thank you to Elouise East for your amazing editing work on Puck Shots.
And a massive thank you to Saxon for all your help making sure that the hockey parts actually made sense. If I still got something wrong, please assume that in this world, that thing is totally possible. I swear by the end of this NHL season, I will have all the lingo down. Maybe.
Also By Becca
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Read it here: https://geni.us/totallyblitzed
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Totally Geeked – (Love in Play Book 2)
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Totally Fanatic – (Love in Play Book 4)
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Totally Played – (Love in Play Book 5)
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About The Author
Becca Jackson is an Australian author of MM romance that delivers heart, heat, and happily ever afters for some totally adorkable and fabulous guys.
Becca’s books have all your favorite tropes, small town romances, bi-awakenings, there’s some sports, friends to lovers and enemies to lovers too, but no matter the trope that takes your fancy, you’ll always find a happily ever after.
