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 asmile, 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 meanoptions?”
“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 youcando, 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.”
