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CHAPTER ONE
Austin
“Austin, you’re on,” Coach Moss says as he draws up the play. “Sutton, Svensson, and Kemp—you’re joining him.”
I’m exhausted, but I’m grinning at the opportunity. The score is three-three and there’s less than a minute left.
It’s been a hell of a game. The Halifax Icebreakers want this as badly as we do. They’re pushing us hard.
My entire team is gathered around, except for Tucker McKinstry who’s sitting in the penalty box by himself.
The crowd is singing Mr. Brightside by The Killers.
This whole year has been surreal.
I’m halfway through my rookie season and I’m still awestruck by it all. The arena is packed and every single person is on their feet. People out there are wearing my jersey. Gambill. Number Nine. I still can’t believe it.
I pictured these moments when I was a ten-year-old boy skating on the frozen pond back home in Michigan, practicing my slap shot, still out there long after the other boys had gone home for hot chocolate and cookies. I was always the last one on the ice, out there until my dad came and dragged me off, fingers frozen and ankles aching, but still begging for five more minutes.
All I wanted was to be a hockey player. I wanted to be like the Flamethrower. I wanted to be the great Harris Sutton.
And now, I’m standing beside Harris as the coach draws up the play.
Too bad he hates me.
“McKinstry is coming out in sixteen seconds,” Coach Moss says. “You’re going to be down one player until then. You’ll have to hold them off.”
I’m feeling nervous and excited and every other emotion possible. Meanwhile, Harris looks calm and cool like it’s just another day at the office. I guess when you’ve been in the league for ten years like he has, it is.
“Kemp, you bring it into their zone and if you have the shot, you take it,” Coach Moss says. “If not, Z-Back formation. They’re going to be expecting the slap shot from Sutton, but Gambill, you’re going to take it.”
Edvard smacks my shoulder with a grin on his face as the excited, nervous energy rippling through me comes to a boil. This is my chance.
The referee blows the whistle, which means our timeout is over. I skate to the circle with the boys as the best players on the Icebreakers skate over to meet us.
I can feel the tension in the air. The home crowd is on the edge of their seats. They want a win and I want to give it to them.
I’ve been feeling the pressure all season long. I was the number one draft pick and I’ve been trying to live up to the title, but it’s hard. These guys are no joke.
I’m having an okay season. Hardly what I had hoped for, but I’m trying to improve. I’m surrounded by so much talent on this team and I’m trying to take it all in.
I was ecstatic when I learned that I’d be on the same team as Harris Sutton, but that hasn’t gone as expected either.
When I was a kid, I had The Flamethrower’s posters on my wall. I wore his jersey so much the letters wore off. The back said Su n.
I practiced his moves and when the Hyenas played a game in Boston, I made my dad drive me over there. We waited outside the arena for four hours until he came out. He signed his hockey card for me and I still remember exactly what he said when my dad told him I was a hockey player.
“I can’t wait to watch you play one day, kid.”
That was my fuel for years. All through the junior and collegiate levels. All those early wake-up calls and grueling practices. Those words spurred me on. They kept me going. The great Harris Sutton was going to watch me play. It was all I cared about.
And then, I found out I’d be Harris’ teammate? I’d be skating beside him? I’d be passing him the puck? I couldn’t believe it.
But then I got here and he didn’t want anything to do with me. He was curt when I introduced myself and blew me off every time I tried to talk to him.
I don’t think he likes me and that’s been tough. It seems like I can’t do anything right around him.
Don’t meet your heroes, folks.
