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And I know.

I know before he gets to the microphone. I know the way I know where the puck’s going, two seconds early. I know by the way he looks up, once, into the stands toward our section, right at me before he even leans down.

The Sentinels are proud to select—

The rest of it, I barely hear. Woodbury. Rafferty Waleska. A building full of people who don’t know me making a sound.

And my mom, screaming.

I’ve heard my name announced a thousand times. Every game since I was eight. Number five, Rafferty Waleska, over a PA in rinks in towns I couldn’t find on a map. It stopped sounding like anything years ago.

Not like this. Never like this.

I’m standing up. I don’t remember standing up.

My mom gets to me first. She throws the whole of herself at me, sobbing, saying my name into my shoulder over and over like she’s calling me in from the backyard. Rafe. Rafe. Rafe. I hold onto her. I don’t know what else to do.

Then my dad.

He doesn’t throw himself at me. He stands, buttons his jacket the way he does, and puts one hand on the back of my neck and pulls me in until my forehead’s against the side of his head and I can smell his aftershave, the same one since I was a kid.

And he says, into my ear, “You did it, son.”

Not we.

You.

I stand there with my father’s hand on the back of my neck in an arena full of strangers and I can’t breathe for a second, like I took a stick to the throat.

He lets go. His eyes are wet. He doesn’t do anything about it. He just nods once and sits back down and puts his hands on his knees.

I turn around. Tessa’s there in her green dress with both hands over her mouth. And she’s crying.

Tessa Canten, who doesn’t cry. Who didn’t cry in my car on Thanksgiving with a bite mark on her finger. She’s standing here with me and tears are coming down her face, smiling behind her hands so hard her eyes are almost shut.

This is the face. The one I kept looking for. In the garage with the tarp. In every version of this I ever imagined.

I didn’t know it was hers until I saw it.

“Why are you crying?” I say.

She takes her hands down.

“Shut up,” she says.

I kiss her in front of my parents and Sato and whatever camera is on our section. My hand on the side of her face, her tears on my thumb. She holds the lapel of the suit she watched a video to tie, and kisses me back, laughing, crying.

Then a man with a lanyard is at the end of our row saying my name, and I go.

The rest goes fast.

Down the steps. Across the floor. The Sentinels’ table. Morley, with his hand out. Welcome. The GM, a man I’ve never met, who shakes my hand. A jersey held open, and I put my arms in it over the suit. It’s too big, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever had on my body. A hat. A photographer saying look here and one more and smile with your teeth, Rafferty, and me not knowing how. Somewhere over all of it, my mom yelling my name from the stands like it’s a peewee game. Then a gray hallway behind the stage, a backdrop with the Sentinels’ logo, a girl with a microphone, a light in my face.

“Rafferty, congratulations. How does it feel?”

I tell her it feels great. It does. I just don’t have the words, so I use the ones everybody uses. A dream come true. Grateful to the organization. My family. My coach.

“You played your freshman year at Woodbury. Do you expect to return there next season?”