The private terminal at Buffalo Airport was unlike anything I’d experienced. No security lines, no crowds, just a sleek jet waiting on the tarmac withDETROIT RED WINGSpainted on the side.
“Adan Rivera?” The pilot greeted us personally. “Welcome aboard. Should be a smooth flight to Detroit, thirty minutes tops.”
My parents were like kids, my dad taking pictures of everything, my mom marveling at the space, the comfort, the attendant offering us drinks and snacks.
“This is how you’ll travel now?” she asked.
“Sometimes. For team flights.”
“My son. In the NHL.” She started crying again.
Detroit’s skyline appeared before I expected it, the Renaissance Center and surrounding buildings rising from the river. Another car waited to take us to Little Caesars Arena, the Red Wings’ home.
Their head coach, Drew Schaffner, met us at the entrance, all smiles and warm handshakes. “Welcome to Detroit! Mr. and Mrs. Rivera, you must be so proud.”
“Every day,” my dad said, the same answer he always gave but weighted with even more meaning now.
The next hour was a whirlwind. Tour of the facilities: training rooms, locker rooms, the gym where I’d spend countless hours. Meeting people whose names I immediately forgot in my nervousness. Then finally, the conference room where I’d sign the contract that changed everything. Floyd had arrived too to witness his success as my agent. He’d get a hefty bonus, but well deserved as far as I was concerned.
“It’s the contract we agreed on,” McLaughlin said, sliding the papers across. “No changes.”
Three years. Entry-level deal. A signing bonus that made my parents gasp when they saw the number, plus performance bonuses that could add more. More money than anyone in my family had ever seen.
I signed my name with a steady hand, each letter bringing me closer to the life I’d dreamed of and the person I wanted to share it with.
“Congratulations,” Coach Schaffner said. “You’re officially a Detroit Red Wing.”
The press conference was a blur. Putting on the jersey—number nineteen, which they said was available—and posing for pictures. Answering questions about my excitement, my development, my goals. All the while thinking about who wasn’t there, who was back in Buffalo preparing for our semi-final game.
“How does it feel to achieve your dream?” a reporter asked.
“Incredible,” I answered honestly. “But the job’s not done. I’ve got a Frozen Four to win first.”
That got approving nods. Good answer. Focused on the present while acknowledging the future.
The flight back was quieter, my parents exhausted from the emotion of the day. I stared out the window at the landscape passing below, processing everything that had happened.
I’d done it. Signed an NHL contract. Secured my family’s future. Achieved the dream that had driven me since childhood.
And in just a few more days, I’d be free to pursue the other dream. The one I hadn’t expected, hadn’t planned for, but now couldn’t imagine living without.
My phone buzzed.
Nils
Saw the press conference. You looked perfect in red.
Me
Two more games.
Nils
Two more games
Two more games until everything changed.
Two more games until I could stop pretending that hockey was the only thing that mattered.
