“Who's the call-up?” Dmitri asked.
“That's the problem. Our AHL affiliate is three states away and their game just started. We can't get anyone here in time.” Coach looked at his clipboard like it might have answers. “League rules say we can activate an emergency reserve if we can prove competitive history and get medical clearance.”
My brain was already moving, putting pieces together before I'd consciously made the decision.
I looked toward the hallway where I knew Soren was probably still packing up equipment, and the idea hit me like a freight train.
“I know someone,” I said.
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Who?” Coach asked.
“Soren. He's here. He played competitive hockey through junior level. He's got the history on record.”
The room exploded into noise—questions, protests, disbelief. Coach held up a hand and everyone shut up.
“The drummer?” he said.
“Yeah. He played with me in high school. Made provincial championships. He's got the registration and he's in shape.” I met Coach's eyes. “He can do this.”
“He hasn't played in over a decade,” Jace pointed out. “This is a playoff game, Rook. Not a charity scrimmage.”
“I know what it is. And I'm telling you he can do it.” I looked at Coach. “You've got emergency waivers in the system, right? Medical liability, one-game activation?”
“Yeah, but?—”
“Then use them. We don't have another option and you know it.”
Coach stared at me for a long moment, clearly running through alternatives and coming up empty. Finally he nodded. “Get him in here. We've got forty minutes to make this legal.”
I found Soren loading drum cases into the band's van, and when I explained what was happening his face went through about six different emotions in three seconds.
“You're joking,” he said.
“I'm not. Tate's out. We need a body. You're cleared by league history and Coach is filing the emergency waiver right now.”
“Rook, I haven't played in thirteen years. I'm rusty as fuck. This is insane.”
“I know. But I trust you.” I grabbed his shoulders and made him look at me. “I trust you, Soren. And we need you.”
He searched my face for whatever he was looking for, and then he nodded. “Okay. Fuck. Okay.”
The next thirty minutes were controlled chaos. Emergency paperwork, medical clearance from the team doctor, digging up Soren's old registration records to prove competitive history. The league office had to approve it, which took fifteen agonizing minutes of phone calls and faxing documents.
While that was happening, equipment staff scrambled to find gear that would fit him. Skates close enough to his size, pads thatcould be adjusted, a jersey with an extra number nobody was using.
I watched him change in the locker room, pulling on equipment he hadn't worn in over a decade, and the look on his face was pure disbelief mixed with terror.
“This is actually happening,” he said.
“Yeah.” I confirmed.
“I'm going to embarrass myself in front of fifteen thousand people.”
“You're going to be fine.”
“You don't know that.”
