Page 392 of Faking the Goal

It's mine.

And I'm fucking ready for it.

Twenty-three names have already been called.

None of them mine.

I knew there was a good chance I'd be waiting this long. Murray has spent the past two months reminding me that goalies are harder to predict in the draft and that being one of the top-ranked goalies doesn't automatically mean I'll be one of the first players off the board.

Knowing that beforehand doesn't make sitting here any less fucking brutal.

Every time another team goes on the clock, my stomach knots. Every time another name appears across the massive screens instead of mine, I clap for the guy who gets up while Taylor squeezes my hand beside me.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-six.

By twenty-seven, my knee has started bouncing beneath the table.

Taylor quietly places her hand on it.

I look over.

"Stop," she whispers.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're vibrating."

Despite myself, I laugh. "I'm fucking nervous."

"I know." Her expression softens as she squeezes my knee. "You're allowed to be."

The twenty-eighth pick is announced.

Applause erupts around us as another player stands, hugs his family, and heads toward the stage.

Then the Vegas Golden Knights go on the clock.

Something shifts beside me.

Murray leans forward.

It's barely a movement, but I notice it immediately because the bastard hasn't done that once tonight.

My eyes narrow.

He catches me looking and gives me the smallest fucking smile.

My heart slams hard against my ribs.

"What?" Taylor whispers, immediately noticing.

I don't answer because I don't fucking know.

Vegas interviewed me twice. The second meeting lasted nearly an hour. Murray told me afterward that they were interested, but he said the same thing he's been saying about every team that's contacted him.